It was Evan’s.
The message preview was from Clara.
“My love, when are we doing a hotel night again? I miss you.”
I honestly thought I was reading it wrong.
Then I opened it.
Jokes about how easy it was because I trusted them both.
There were months of messages.
That was the part that hit hardest. Not one drunken mistake. Not one terrible lapse. A pattern. A routine. A second relationship.
Hotel confirmations. Flirty messages. Photos. Complaints about me. Jokes about how easy it was because I trusted them both. Plans built around my schedule. References to work trips that were not work trips.
And the dates.
Six months.
He smiled like everything was normal.
The affair had started before Clara’s health crashed. Before the transplant. Before I lay in a hospital bed while my husband kissed my forehead and my sister called me her hero.
I sat down on the kitchen floor because my legs stopped working.
I kept scrolling.
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