After three years of working away from home, my husband came back with a strange new habit: every night, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, something he had never done before. I asked him, “Who taught you to sleep like that?” He sighed and replied, “If you pretend you don’t know, you can keep being my wife.” I didn’t argue. The next day, I called my lawyer because I already had proof of what he had been doing for those three years.

Gwendolyn Vance.

My hands stopped moving.

There it was.

Not a hotel.

Not travel.

A home.

They had lived together.

For at least twenty-two months.

I stared at the screen.

Then printed the lease.

My marriage ended quietly at my desk.

Not that night in bed.

Not when he confessed.

There.

A lease.

Two names.

One address.

The life he had built while I waited.

Still, I said nothing.

Because I wanted to know how much he would lie.

Christopher came home permanently two weeks later.

The first few days, he acted affectionate.

Too affectionate.

Flowers.

Wine.

Touches.

That strange embrace every night.

Then I asked.

“Who taught you to sleep like that?”

He walked onto the balcony.

Lit the cigarette.

Then said,

“Lorelei, there are things I don’t tell you because you don’t need to know.”

I remained in bed.

My heart was pounding.

Then he said her name.

“Gwen isn’t like the others.”

For a moment, I stopped breathing.

The others.

Not one affair.

Others.

He continued.

“If you don’t make a scene, she’ll never have any reason to bother you.”

I stared at his silhouette.

City light behind him.

Cigarette ember glowing.

Then I asked.

“How long?”

He did not answer.

I repeated.

“How long, Christopher?”

He sighed.

“Don’t do this.”

“How long?”

He turned.

“Why does the number matter?”

I laughed.

Because sometimes cruelty is so complete it becomes absurd.

I sat up slowly.

“Then choose.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“Her or me.”

Christopher’s jaw tightened.

“For God’s sake.”

“Choose.”

“This is childish.”