I bought new lingerie and left it folded neatly on the bed like an offering. I planned date nights, made reservations, arranged babysitters. I read articles about maintaining intimacy and sent him messages that said I missed him, that I wanted him, that we could find our way back if we both tried.
He went through the motions. His laughter seemed delayed. His eyes kept darting to his phone.
One evening at dinner, the candle between us flickering as the waiter poured wine, I heard my own voice ask the question I’d been avoiding.
“Is everything okay between us?”
William didn’t look up from the menu. “Just tired, Jen.”
And then he retreated to his home office, closing the door, his voice dropping into a low murmur during late-night calls. I walked past the hallway and paused, listening to the cadence of him speaking softly in a way he never spoke to me anymore. I told myself he was discussing cases. I told myself privacy mattered.
I told myself that checking his phone would make me the kind of woman I wasn’t.
Until our fifteenth anniversary approached.
I planned a romantic weekend in Napa Valley, the place where we’d honeymooned, the place I had always thought held the best version of us. I imagined vineyards, laughter, a hotel room where he looked at me like I still mattered. I needed to confirm his availability, and his phone was on the counter while he showered. I picked it up like it was nothing, like it was simply a tool.
The notification appeared before I even opened the calendar.
Dr. Rebecca Harrington: Last night was amazing. Can’t wait to be with you again. When are you leaving her?
Time froze in that hot, bright kitchen. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere down the street a lawnmower started. My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles ached.
I opened the thread.
It was a long fall down a deep hole. Hundreds of messages. Plans made in between my children’s schedules. Photos that turned my skin cold. Cruel jokes that made me feel like a piece of furniture in my own house.
William: She’s planning some big anniversary surprise.
Rebecca: Poor thing. Still thinks there’s something to celebrate.
I set the phone back exactly where it had been, as if placement could undo what I had read. I moved like someone underwater. I made William’s coffee. I packed lunches. I kissed him goodbye when he left for the hospital and watched him walk out the door like he hadn’t just split my life in half with a handful of texts.
Then I ran to the bathroom and vomited until my body had nothing left to give.
That night, after the children were asleep, I confronted him in our bedroom. The room smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser I’d bought because some magazine said calming scents could restore intimacy. The absurdity of that struck me as I stood at the foot of our bed.
“Are you sleeping with Rebecca Harrington?” I asked.
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