Three weeks later, over morning coffee, I handed him the divorce papers.
He read them twice, eyes widening.
“Lucy, what’s this?”
“Your freedom.” I sipped my coffee. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do.” I opened my phone and played the video from night three.
His face drained of color. I played night four. Night five.
“How long?” he whispered.
“How long what?” I asked. “How long you’ve been lying? Sneaking? How long I’ve known? Pick one. I’ve got time.”
He reached for me. I stepped back.
“Lucy, please. Let me explain.”
“Explain what? That twenty-two years wasn’t enough? That I wasn’t enough?” My voice cracked but held steady. “No thanks. I’ve heard enough explanations to last a lifetime.”
My lawyer said I had an airtight case—community property, crystal-clear evidence, no prenup. The house would be mine. Half of everything else, too.
Dave moved in with Betty after I filed.
