I was folding my husband’s socks when I saw the photo. The city skyline was a blaze of light, and he was smiling next to her, his hand on the small of her back.
He came home an hour later, smelling of cold night air and expensive perfume that wasn’t mine. He said it was just business, that Petra needed his support for her gallery opening. He never called me to come. He said he thought I’d be bored.
It was always Petra. His childhood best friend, the artist, the one his mother said was the one who got away. The one our entire social circle adored. I was the quiet wife, the practical one, the background noise to his bright, important life. His mother would sigh and say Petra understood his ambitions, while I just asked if he remembered to take out the trash.
The night he forgot our anniversary because her “crisis” required a深夜 dash across town, I sat at our table for two, the candle wax pooling onto the linen. He texted: *So sorry. She’s a wreck. You understand.* I looked around our apartment, at the life we’d built, and realized I was a guest in it. He was so busy lighting up the city for her, he’d left me in the dark, forgotten.
When does a marriage become a hollow space? When do you stop fighting for a man who has already handed his loyalty to someone else?
There is no cheating in this book.
