After fifteen years of marriage, I made a mistake so devastating that it split my life in two — before and after. I cheated on my wife, Sarah, the woman who had stood beside me through layoffs, losses, illnesses, and every hardship two people could share. And instead of burying the truth, I chose to tell her.
The affair had ended months earlier. The woman had moved to another state. I could have carried that secret forever, protecting myself and sparing Sarah the pain. But every time she smiled at me, every time she reached for my hand, guilt clawed at my insides. I was living a lie. So one evening, as the sun sank over our back porch, I told her everything.
Sarah didn’t yell. She didn’t throw anything. She just cried silently — tears running down her face in the fading light. Then she stood up, walked inside, and closed the bedroom door. Not slammed. Just… closed. Softly. Finally.
I spent the night on the couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had just destroyed.
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