I sat there, the "I love you" echoing in the empty space he left behind. The waiter approached, looking awkward.

“Is… is everything alright, ma’am? Should I bring the main course?”

“No,” I said, my voice trembling. “Just the check, please.”

I took a taxi home. The house was dark when I arrived. I expected it to be empty.

But as I walked into the living room, I saw them.

Denise was sprawled on the couch, her red dress rumpled, her makeup smeared. She was laughing, a loud, slurring sound. There was a bottle of tequila on the table, half empty.

And Brandon was there. He was kneeling beside her, wiping her face with a wet cloth. He wasn't at the office. He wasn't fixing a server. He was fixing her.

“You’re such a mess,” he murmured, but his voice was tender, not angry. “I told you not to go out.”

“I just wanted to dance!” Denise giggled, reaching out to touch his face.

Brandon caught her hand and kissed her palm.

Then he saw me. He froze. He stood up quickly, putting distance between them.

“Maureen,” he stammered. “I… I got a call. She was at a bar, drunk. The bartender called me from her phone. I had to go pick her up. It was an emergency.”

So that was the emergency. Not work. Her. She called, and he ran. He left his wife alone on their anniversary because his mistress had a few too many shots.

“I see,” I said. My voice was calm. Too calm.

“I’m sorry about dinner,” he said, taking a step toward me. “I was just about to—”

I walked past him. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't even look at Denise.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m tired.”

I went into the bedroom and locked the door. I leaned against the wood, listening to him whisper to her in the living room, telling her to be quiet, carrying her to the guest room.

My phone pinged.

I pulled it out. A new email notification.

From: Mark

Subject: Divorce Papers - Final Draft

Maureen, the papers are ready. Attached below.

And then, another ping.

From: Immigration Office

Subject: Visa Application Approved

I stared at the screen. The tears that had been threatening to fall all night suddenly dried up.

“It might take a little longer for your body to recover, Mrs. Miller.”

Dr. Evans’ voice was gentle, professional, but the words hung heavy in the sterile white room. I sat on the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath me.