The night my marriage finally broke beyond repair, my husband, Caleb, walked through the front door with another woman on his arm as casually as if he were carrying takeout.
It was Thursday. I remember because Thursdays had always been our “quiet night.”
No guests, no work dinners, no excuses. I had cooked lemon chicken, set the table for two, and even lit the candle my sister gave us for our tenth anniversary.
By 7:30, the food had gone cold. By 8:00, worry had turned into anger.
Then I heard the lock click.
Caleb stepped in first, his tie loosened, that familiar trace of expensive cologne following him, along with the same confident half-smile he always wore when he thought he could talk his way out of anything.
