For ten years, I thought I had a good marriage. Mark and I had two kids, a house, and a life built on what I assumed was love. Sure, he wasn’t exactly a hands-on husband—he didn’t cook, clean, or handle much with the kids—but I convinced myself we were a team.
It all started on an ordinary afternoon. I had just come back from grocery shopping, mentally preparing for the usual routine of carrying everything inside alone. As I reached for the first bag, I heard voices drifting from the porch.
Emma was our neighbor’s 25-year-old daughter, freshly back in town after finishing her interior design internship. Her parents beamed with pride whenever they spoke about her. Now, she was on my porch, laughing with my husband.
I was about to call out, but something made me stop. Instead, I crouched behind my car, hidden by the groceries, and listened.
