My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t unlock the door after seeing the photo on his laptop.
He was asleep on the couch, TV flickering, the glow of the laptop still warm beside him. I picked it up, and there she was—a smiling woman on the screen. Beneath her photo were files: calendars, messages, plans. One date stood out: April 7 – Meet Alina. Move discussion.
My voice cracked. “Is this what ‘working late’ means?”
He jolted awake, panicked. “It’s not what it looks like,” he said, trying to explain. “She’s an old friend. I was helping her through a divorce. It got… complicated.”
“But you’re planning a move with her. Behind my back,” I said, stunned.
He said he was going to tell me. But the silence said otherwise.
The next day, I left—no screaming, just a bag and a call to my friend Zari. He texted, called, claimed it was innocent. But friends don’t make secret relocation plans.
Then came the twist: two weeks later, a voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize.
It was her. Alina.
She said Micah told her we were separated. She only found out the truth after seeing a photo of us. She confronted him. He finally admitted everything.
We’d both been lied to.
Later, Micah and I met one last time. Quiet, honest.
“I was unhappy,” he said. “But I should’ve talked to you.”
I didn’t ask him to stay. I just let him go.
Six months later, I live in a small apartment with yellow walls. It doesn’t match, but it’s mine. I’ve started painting again. I laugh more. I joined a book club where no one knows me as “Micah’s wife.”
Life didn’t go how I imagined. But maybe that’s okay.
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