These were the symptoms I’d had with my ex. In the weeks before I found out he’d been cheating on me with my best friend, my body had been screaming warnings my brain refused to hear. My stomach had been in knots. I’d lost weight. I’d started waking up at 3 AM with my heart racing for no reason I could name.
And when I’d finally worked up the courage to ask Sean if something was wrong, he’d looked me in the eye and told me everything was fine. That I was being paranoid. That I needed to trust him. Two weeks later, I’d walked in on him and Kaitlyn in our bed.
I’d promised myself I’d never ignore those warning signs again. That I’d never let someone gaslight me into thinking my instincts were wrong. But I also knew trauma could make you see threats where none existed. The challenge was figuring out which one this was.
And now the same physical responses were starting again.
Except this was Sam. Sam, who’d held me through my grandmother’s funeral last year. Sam, who knew I needed exactly twelve minutes of silence when I first got home from a hard day before I could talk about it. Sam, whose hand I reached for automatically in crowds, whose side of the bed felt wrong when he wasn’t in it.
I forced myself to think rationally. Our shared bank account showed a pattern I couldn’t ignore. A cash withdrawal a few days ago. Multiple credit card charges since then — a gas station, a restaurant, Millfield Toys & Games, and now a motel. All in Millfield. All unexplained.
A motel.
I stared at the screen, my veterinary training automatically cataloging symptoms and searching for patterns.
When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
The horse was obvious: another woman. The evidence pointed to Sam having an affair, probably with someone who had children, someone he was supporting financially and meeting secretly in neighboring towns.
Sean had taught me to jump to that conclusion. To see betrayal in unexplained absences. To assume the worst because the worst had already happened once. Was I reading the evidence clearly, or was I reading it through the lens of old trauma?
What if this time it really was zebras? What if there was an explanation that made sense of all the evidence but wasn’t the obvious one?
In veterinary medicine, you learned to trust your diagnostic instincts but remain open to unusual presentations. Sometimes a dog’s loss of appetite wasn’t illness - it was stress from a new baby in the house. Sometimes aggression wasn’t behavioral - it was pain that couldn’t be communicated any other way.
The evidence was circumstantial but damning. A cash withdrawal, secretive behavior, and now a motel charge. But as I sat in our quiet house with my laptop open to our shared financial accounts, I realized something that surprised me.
I wasn’t falling apart.
The last time I’d discovered a partner’s betrayal, I’d been completely blindsided. Sean’s deception had shattered me so thoroughly that I’d disappeared for days — couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function. When I’d finally surfaced from that breakdown, I’d packed up my entire life within a week and moved miles away to start over. I’d been young, financially dependent, professionally inexperienced. I’d run because staying felt impossible.
But I wasn’t that girl anymore.
I owned this house outright – bought it with an inheritance from my grandpa, who had always encouraged my plans to be avet. I had a business that served this community, relationships with clients who depended on me, a professional reputation I’d spent years establishing. I had savings, investments, a career that could support me anywhere I chose to live.
Most importantly, I had options.
I opened a notebook and started making notes - the same methodical approach I used for complex medical cases.
I could leave Willowbrook. Start fresh somewhere new, sell everything, run like I did before.
Or I could stay. Keep what I’d built. Face whatever was coming with my eyes open this time.
Or – and this was the option that scared me most – I could fight for the relationship. Make time for the conversation Sam had been trying to have. Face whatever truth was waiting instead of hiding behind exhaustion and work.
But I wasn’t ready yet. Healing wasn’t linear. Sometimes you took steps forward, and sometimes old wounds knocked you sideways, and you needed time to find your footing again.
By six o’clock, exhaustion was weighing on me like a physical force. Part of me wanted to stay up, to be awake when Sam got home, to finally have the conversation we’d been dancing around. But I was still drained from the past two days — the alpaca births, the devastating cattle emergency, and now this emotional turmoil on top of it all.
And if I was being honest with myself, I was doing what I always did when my confidence got knocked sideways - hiding until I felt strong enough to face whatever was coming. It wasn’t healthy, but it was survival.
Whatever Sam needed to tell me, I’d handle it better when I wasn’t running on empty.
I closed my notebook and headed upstairs.
Chapter 7
Sam Morning - Five Days After Chloe’s Birthday
