I didn’t catch him with lipstick on his collar.
I caught him with flight confirmations on my credit card.
Seven years married, one child, and a business I built from my laptop while he played “steady husband” in gray suits.
Our friends thought we were stable.
Even I thought we were stable.
Then his phone lit up while he was in the shower.
“Pack your passport, baby. Tomorrow is paradise.”
And my card—my name—was on the booking.
I didn’t confront him.
I didn’t cry.
I did something colder.
I let him think he’d gotten away with it.
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