On the night my marriage finally cracked wide open, my husband, Ethan, walked through our front door with another woman on his arm as casually as if he were bringing home takeout.
It was a Thursday. I remember because Thursdays had always been our “quiet night.” No guests, no business 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 seven-thirty, the meal had gone cold. By eight, I wasn’t worried anymore. I was angry.
Then I heard the lock click.
