At night, she would lean on my shoulder while watching shows. In the morning, she would kiss me goodbye.
But I couldn’t smile anymore. I felt like an invisible man, locked outside the door of our marriage.
She was inside, doing God knows what, and I had no idea. I didn’t dare imagine.
I kept reviewing her schedule for the past month.
Twice, she had said she was going back to her parents’ place. She hadn’t done that often, maybe five or six times a year.
And every time, she would have me drive her there.
But those two times, she went alone and never said a word more. I pulled up my phone calendar and circled the dates in red.
I hired a private investigator. I told no one.
All I said was, “Look into a woman. I want everything, especially what happened on those two days.”
The detective accepted quickly and promised results in three days.
For those three days, I lived like a ghost. By day, I buried myself in meetings, emails, and proposals.
By night, I came home. She slept soundly beside me. And I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, unmoving.
On the fourth night, my phone lit up.
A message came in. [Got results. Sending photos.]
I didn’t open it right away and waited five full minutes.
My palms were damp, my fingers trembling, and then, finally, I tapped in.
The first photo appeared. It was a sunny day. She was wearing that white dress.
I knew it instantly, and I bought it for her.
We were shopping together that day. She saw it, smiled, and said she loved it. I paid without hesitation.
In the photo, she was seated at a corner café. Across from her sat a man.
They weren’t sitting too close. No hand-holding.
But her gaze had softened, melting, tender.
Exactly like the look she wore back when I first chased her.
My knuckles turned white as I clutched the phone.
I kept swiping.
They laughed and chatted like the most in-sync couple.
The last photo, under the night sky, the two of them walked into a hotel one after the other.
Neon lights at the entrance blurred across the image.
He walked ahead. She followed, head lowered, a soft smile blooming on her face.
And then I remembered. I knew that man.
The year we got married, Averie said a college classmate was in town and invited us to dinner.
She’d called him “an old friend from back then.”
After the meal, she walked him downstairs. When she returned, her eyes were red.
She said that a classmate had praised me for being a good man.