I Used to Think His Late Nights Meant Hard Work—Until I Found Him at Her House (2 of 2)

Just as I was wiping my hands, I remembered I’d left my phone charger at my mom’s house the night before. Dan had texted he was stuck late again, so I figured I had time to run out and back before he even noticed. Keys in hand, heart full of cautious hope, I headed to my mom’s.

The street was quiet when I pulled up. No lights on, no cars out front. Odd, but not unusual. I let myself in and called out. Nothing. I started toward her bedroom to check if she was resting, but something at the entry stopped me.

Dan’s sneakers.

Not similar. Not maybe. His.

My chest tightened. My brain scrambled to explain. Maybe he stopped by? Dropped something off? But then I heard it—a low laugh. Hers. Then his voice. Then something else, something no daughter should hear outside her mother’s bedroom door.

I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to.

My heart shattered before my mind could catch up. My husband. My mother. Together. My knees buckled, but I didn’t fall. I walked away, each step heavier than the last. I didn’t say a word. Not to him. Not to her. There was nothing left to say.

Back home, the candles still flickered. The lasagna sat untouched. And on the counter, the cake cooled quietly, unaware the night had already burned to ash.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, I packed a bag and walked out the door, unsure of where I was going but certain of one thing: I would never return to that version of my life again.