I followed. A few cars behind.

He buzzed into an apartment complex.
Lights turned on upstairs.

I didn’t need to go in.

The next morning, he kissed me goodbye like nothing had changed.

I cried.
Not because he cheated.
But because part of me still wished I was wrong.

Later, I called Mira. My college roommate.
Now a lawyer.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

I didn’t know. Yet.

A few days later, I made dinner reservations.
The same place where we had our first anniversary.

He smiled like hope had returned.

I wore red. Curled my hair.
And brought a photo: him, holding another woman’s hand.

He fumbled. Apologized. Claimed it “wasn’t serious.”
“It just happened.”

I took his hand gently.

“You know what hurts most? Not the affair.
The fact you made it so easy to find.
That you didn’t even try to protect me from the lie.”

I placed my key on the table.

“You made your choice.
I’m just finally making mine.”

No shouting. No drawn-out court battles.

I moved in with Mira.