I closed the journal and threw it across the room with a scream. Then I sat on the floor and cried for the first time since the barbecue.
Not quiet, dignified tears. Big, ugly, heaving sobs that shook my whole body. I cried for the marriage I thought I had. For the future I had imagined. For my kids who didn’t ask for any of this. And for myself, for how stupid I had been.
When I finally stopped, my face was swollen and my throat was raw. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back.
My phone buzzed. A text from my sister: How are you holding up?
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet. She had known for months and said nothing. That betrayal felt almost as heavy as Kevin’s.
On Sunday evening, Kevin brought the kids home. They ran inside, chattering excitedly about the arcade and the pizza they’d had for lunch. Kevin lingered at the door.
“They had a good time,” he said.
“Good.”
“Can I come in? Just for a minute?”
“No.”
“Please. I miss you. I miss this.”
“You should have thought about that.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m an idiot. But I’m trying to fix things.”
“You can’t fix this, Kevin.”
“Why not? People make mistakes. That’s human.”
“But we have history,” he urged. “We have kids. We have a life together.”
“Had,” I corrected. “Past tense.”
His face crumbled. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“It doesn’t have to be. We can start over. Clean slate. I will do anything.”
“Anything?”
“Yes.”
“Sign the divorce papers without contesting anything.”
He stepped back as if I had slapped him. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Think about the kids.”
“I am thinking about them,” I said fiercely. “They deserve to grow up seeing what a healthy relationship looks like. Ours isn’t that anymore.”
“Because of one mistake,” he pleaded.
“Stop calling it that,” I said. “A mistake is forgetting to buy milk. This was a deliberate choice you made over and over for months.”
He started crying again. “I can’t lose you. I can’t lose them.”
“You’re not losing the kids. You’ll still be their father. But you are losing me.”
He wiped his face. “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”
“No.”
He nodded slowly, defeat settling over him. “Okay. Okay. If that’s what you want, I’ll sign the papers.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to leave, then stopped. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“But you did anyway.”
“Yeah. I did.”
He left. I closed the door and locked it. Then I went to check on the kids. They were in the living room, building a tower with blocks.
“Did you have fun with Daddy?” I asked.
They nodded enthusiastically, launching into stories about every game they had played and every prize they had won. I listened and smiled, pretending my heart wasn’t breaking all over again.
That night, after they were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and Kevin’s journal. I read every entry again, looking for clues I had missed. Signs that this was coming. There weren’t any. Or maybe there were, and I had just been too blind to see them. Either way, it didn’t matter now.
I thought about the last ten years. All the moments that had seemed perfect. Were any of them real? Or had Kevin been mentally checking out the whole time, just waiting for something better to come along?
My phone rang. It was an unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.
“Hello? Is this Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Yes.”
“This is Felicity Morrison.”
I froze. “Why are you calling me?”
“I need to talk to you. About Kevin.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please, just five minutes,” she pleaded. “There are things you should know.”
Against my better judgment, I said, “Fine. Five minutes.”
She took a breath. “Kevin lied to both of us. About everything.”
“I’m listening.”
“He told me you two were separated,” she said. “That you’d been living separate lives for over a year. That the divorce was practically finalized. None of that was true. I know that now. But I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? He seemed so genuine.”
“Is there a point to this call?”
“Yes. I want you to know I had no idea. If I had known he was still living with you, still sleeping in your bed, still playing happy family, I never would’ve gotten involved.”
“Okay,” I said.
“That’s it? Just okay?”
“What do you want me to say? That I forgive you? I don’t even know you.”
“I just want you to know I’m not a homewrecker,” she insisted. “I’m not the kind of person who goes after married men.”
“And yet,” I said.
She was quiet. “You’re right. Intentions don’t matter. Actions do. And my actions destroyed your marriage.”
“No,” I corrected. “Kevin’s actions destroyed my marriage. You were just a participant.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“I’m not being generous. I’m being accurate. Kevin made vows to me. You didn’t. His betrayal is on him.”
“For what it’s worth, I ended things,” she said. “After Brandon’s party, Kevin came to the apartment and tried to explain. I told him to leave and not come back.”
“Good for you.”
“I just thought you should know that it’s really over between us.”
“Noted. And I’m sorry,” she added. “I know that doesn’t mean much coming from me, but I am.”
I hung up without responding. I didn’t owe her absolution. I didn’t owe her anything. But her call confirmed what I had suspected: Kevin had been lying to everyone, playing both sides, trying to have it all.
The following Monday, Kevin signed the divorce papers. Patricia called to tell me the news.
“He didn’t contest anything?” I asked, surprised.
“Not a single thing. He signed everything exactly as we proposed. That was fast. He must really want this over with, or he’s finally accepting reality.”
Either way, it meant we could move forward. The divorce would take another four months to finalize. In the meantime, we established a custody schedule. Kevin would have the kids every other weekend and one night a week. I kept the house. He kept his retirement account. We split everything else down the middle.
It was all very civilized. Very adult. And very depressing.
I started seeing a therapist named Dr. Monroe. She specialized in trauma resulting from infidelity.
“How are you sleeping?” she asked during our first session.
“Not great.”
“That’s normal. Your body is in survival mode. The betrayal you experienced is a form of trauma.”
“It doesn’t feel like trauma,” I said. “It just feels like sadness.”
“Sadness is part of it. But so is anger. Confusion. Self-doubt. All of those are normal responses.”
“I keep wondering what I did wrong,” I admitted.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because he chose someone else. That has to mean something about me, right?”
“It means something about him,” Dr. Monroe corrected gently. “About his choices. Not about your worth.”
I wanted to believe that, but part of me kept circling back to the same agonizing questions. What did Felicity have that I didn’t? What made her worth risking everything?
“Stop comparing yourself to her,” Dr. Monroe said when I voiced this thought. “You’re not competing. There is no winner here. Everyone lost.”
She was right. But knowing it didn’t make it easier.
I started attending a support group for people going through divorce. We met every Tuesday night in a church basement. There were eight of us, all different ages and backgrounds, all dealing with the wreckage of broken marriages.
