The day I caught my husband cheating, I was wearing compression socks with tiny lemons on them because that’s what passes for personality when you spend twelve-hour shifts in scrubs. I’d just walked out of a staffing meeting at the hospital where a doctor had spoken to me like I’d personally invented nursing shortages, and I was sitting in my car in the employee lot trying to remember what it felt like to breathe without counting the seconds. My phone rang, and it was my best friend Sarah.
The way she said my name—soft and urgent, like she was bracing me for impact—made my stomach drop before she’d even explained why she was calling. “Blythe, are you at that restaurant off Highway 9?” she asked carefully. I blinked at my steering wheel, confused.
“No. Why would I be there?”
There was a pause, the kind that feels like a door closing between what your life was and what it’s about to become. “I just saw your husband,” she said, then rushed the rest out like she wanted it to land softly but knew it wouldn’t.
“With a woman. I thought you were with him, but then I realized you weren’t and they were… close. Really close.”
My hands went cold against the steering wheel.
I did that stupid thing people do when something catastrophic is happening—I tried to turn it into a misunderstanding so it wouldn’t become real. “He told me he’s still at the office,” I said, forcing a laugh that came out dry and wrong. “Late meeting.
You probably saw someone who looks like him.”
Another pause. “Blythe, it’s him. I’m looking at him right now through the window.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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