I took the tablet before she could read more.
That night, while Brad slept beside me, I learned exactly how long my marriage had been dead.
Seven months.
Hotel rooms.
Restaurant receipts.
Weekend “conferences.”
One message from Brad made me physically sick.
Melissa:
Does she suspect?
Brad:
Natalie believes whatever I tell her.
Another:
Once the house situation is handled, everything gets easier.
I didn’t understand that one.
Not yet.
I should have confronted him.
Instead, I did something stupid.
Petty.
Angry.
That Saturday morning, while Brad showered, I interfered with his coffee.
I won’t pretend it was clever.
It wasn’t.
It was reckless retaliation born from three weeks of barely sleeping and imagining him laughing about me with another woman.
He drank it.
Kissed my cheek.
“Don’t wait for lunch.”
“I won’t.”
He left at 9:18.
At 9:24, I threw the remaining coffee away and immediately hated myself.
Whatever Brad had done, I didn’t like the person I had just become.
So I grabbed my keys.
I planned to drive to my sister’s house, cool down, then finally call an attorney.
Sophie was staying with my mother for the weekend.
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