By Thursday, I had a plan. I set my phone alarm for 2:55 a.m. and tucked it under my pillow.
When it buzzed, Dave’s side of the bed was already empty. And cold.
I crept to the window.
The street was quiet under the porch lights… and there he was.
Standing on the porch of the blue house across the street.
Betty’s house.
Newly divorced. Perfect lawn. Yoga pants worn like evening gowns.
The porch light flicked on, revealing Betty in a red silk dress, hair loose, looking nothing like me—nothing like the woman who’d raised his kids, endured job losses, funerals, and twenty-two years of Tuesday nights.
She wrapped her arms around him.
He pulled her close. They kissed—hungry, reckless, young.
I watched my husband become someone I didn’t recognize.
He whispered something that made her laugh, her voice carrying across the quiet street. Then he headed home, while she stood in her doorway like she was seeing him off to battle.
I had seconds before he came inside.
I dove into the hallway closet. My heart hammered so loud I was sure he’d hear it.
The door clicked open. Footsteps. The stairs.
