The night my marriage finally imploded, my husband, Ethan, walked into our house with another woman on his arm, as casually as if he were bringing in takeout.
It was a Thursday. I remember it because Thursday had always been our “quiet night.” No guests, no business dinners, no excuses. I’d made lemon chicken, set the table for two, and even lit the candle my sister had given us for our tenth wedding anniversary. By 7:30 p.m., the meal was cold. By 8:00 p.m., I wasn’t worried anymore. I was furious.
Then I heard the click of the lock.
Ethan walked in first, tie loosened, his expensive cologne hissing in his wake, wearing that familiar half-smile he displayed whenever he thought he could extricate himself from any situation with words. Behind him followed a tall blonde in a cream coat and heels too delicate for our cracked front steps. She glanced into my living room with the detached curiosity one sees in hotel lobbies.
“Claire,” said Ethan, as if I were the one interrupting his evening. “We need to act like adults.”
I slowly got up from the table. “Adults?”
The woman gave a tight smile and adjusted her handbag over her shoulder. “Hello. My name is Madison.”
I didn’t introduce myself. She knew perfectly well who I was.
Ethan sighed, already annoyed that I wasn’t making things easy for him. “Madison and I have been seeing each other for eight months. I don’t want to lie anymore. I want honesty in this house.”
