For weeks, Teresa vanished after dinner, claiming she needed “air.” I believed her—until the signs piled up. Shaky hands clutching her phone. Avoiding my gaze. Showering immediately after returning. Our marriage, once solid, now felt like a house with a cracked foundation.
I’d been demoted at work. Money was tight. Teresa picked up extra shifts at the diner. But this wasn’t about stress. It was something deeper. Something secret.
One evening, I followed her.
She walked with purpose—not the slow, reflective stroll she described. Down Oakville Street, past the diner, into a quiet neighborhood I didn’t recognize. She kept checking her phone. My heart pounded.
Then she stopped. A man stepped out of a car. She smiled—wide, warm, familiar. They embraced. Not like friends. Like lovers.
I froze.
I watched them disappear into a house. I didn’t knock. I didn’t scream. I walked home, each step heavier than the last.
That night, I tucked our kids into bed alone. Teresa returned an hour later, smelling of perfume and betrayal. She kissed my cheek. I didn’t flinch. I just stared.
She whispered, “Thanks for understanding.”
I nodded. But inside, something had shattered.
I never confronted her. Not yet. I needed time—to grieve the woman I thought I knew. To decide whether silence was strength… or surrender.
