I stop dead at the top of the stairs. For a heartbeat, everything goes still—the air, my pulse, the world. My body moves before my brain can catch up.
I already know. A part of me has known since I saw his car in the driveway. But knowing and seeing are two different things.
I push the bedroom door open, and there he is. My husband, in our bed—my bed—with his assistant. For a second, my brain… goes blank. She’s on top of him, riding him, he has one hand on her waist, pulling her hair with the other, she’s moaning and screaming his name. The name ofmyhusband. What a warm welcome home.
It’s almost clinical, the way my body reacts: everything slows down, my hands go cold, my stomach drops straight through the floor. I’m not even sure I’m breathing. That’s my bed. My life. And somehow, I feel like the intruder.
I don’t know why I’m standing here just watching it. A part of me wants to scream and drag her down the stairs, another part of me wants to slap him, but I just froze there. David has never even shown a sign that he might cheat on me. He doesn’t even look at women when they pass by him.
But everything comes in a flash. That night, when he was at his work dinner, I heard a woman’s voice; it must be her. And that’s when he sees me. She notices and tries to cover herself. Both were too stunned even to pretend it’s not happening. Her mouth opens like she might explain it, like there’s a single syllable that could make this better.
David’s eyes go wide the second he sees me. “Olivia—” I laugh. It’s sharp, automatic, not even real laughter, just something my body does to stop me from screaming. “I was about to ask if I could join,” I say, my voice too calm, too even. “But I didn’t want to interrupt.” For a split second, no one moves. The room smells like perfume that isn’t mine. She’s still frozen, half-hidden behind him, wide-eyed and useless. I look straight at her, and she drops her gaze like a guilty kid caught stealing.
I don’t slam the door. I don’t cry. I don’t throw anything, even though a part of me wants to tear the whole place apart. I turn around and go.
He fumbles after me, yanking on pants, tripping over himself. “Olivia, wait—” At the bottom of the stairs, he grabs my arm. Instinct snaps in me, and I spin on him so fast his fingers slip off my sleeve like he’s been burned. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I spit. He jerks back as if I struck him. “I, I— that’s not what—” He stutters, hunting for sentences the way a drowning man grabs at air.
I cut him off before he can shape whatever lie he’s been rehearsing. “Oh, you really are going to say ‘that’s not what it looked like’?” The words are a blade. “Because it looked exactly like you were fucking your assistant in our bed.” My voice doesn’t waver. I say it as plainly as I would say the weather, because naming it takes some of the power away. He goes pale. For a second, he’s breathless, like someone pulled the air out of the room. “It doesn’t mean anything. I swear it was just?—”
“Just what?” I laugh, and the sound is little and bitter. “Just sex? Just a mistake? Because that makes it okay, right?” I can feel the blood in my ears; everything goes narrow and focused until there’s only him and the words I owe myself. “I want her gone now. And when I get back with the kids, I want you gone too.”
He moves, like he thinks blocking the door will change where I’m headed. Like trapping me in this house will fix what he broke. He plants himself there, arms out, ridiculous and small. “Please,” he says, voice raw, “just talk to me. Don’t leave. Don’t?—”
“What’s there left to say?” I ask, quieter now, and it’s worse. The room seems to inhale. He meekly lowers his arms, like a man realizing the joke isn’t funny anymore.
He tries again, the same old lines he always used when something needed fixing, excuses, explanations, the cadence of somebody who’s practiced being forgiven. None of it lands. I hear his words, but I don’t feel them. They’re a broadcast from a different planet.
My hands are shaking, not just from anger. From the way the world rearranged itself. I look at him, and I don’t see the man who walked into my life. I see a stranger.
I see how the father of my children just told me, with his actions, that our life was over.
“Get her out,” I say. “Now.” My voice is cold. The command fills the stairs, and there’s no room for bargaining. I don’t wait to watch what he does next.
I slam the door behind me and go straight to my car. And then, once I’m alone, I cry the whole way to school. I’m furious and humiliated. And then I realize what a hypocrite I am. I’m here putting David on the spot because he cheated on me when I’ve been doing the same for the past week. What a joke. I’m such a fucking idiot.
I almost call Ethan out of sadness and anger. My thumb hovers over his name. But I don’t press it. I won’t let this betrayal drive me back into someone else’s arms. I won’t make this worse.
The kids run to me like I hung the moon. I hug them like I’m not shaking inside. We grab burgers and milkshakes, and I fake normal. Because that’s what moms do. Under the table, I text Julia. I explained everything, and she’s as shocked as I am.
Julia: I’m here. I love you.
Back home, Beatriz is in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, humming under her breath. She looks up, surprised to see me this early.
“Oh! You’re home?—”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a small smile. “We grabbed something on the way. But please, eat what you made. We’ll have the leftovers tomorrow.” She hesitates, but smiles, spoon midair, like she can feel the air shift before Ieven register it myself. “David’s in his office,” she murmurs.
The words hit like a static charge. Before I can respond, I hear him behind me. “Olivia.” The house goes silent.
“Can we talk?” She scoops up the kids from the living room floor, murmurs something about bath time, and disappears upstairs without another word.
He steps into the kitchen, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I lean against the counter, cross my arms, and look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, I see someone I don’t recognize. “How long?” I ask.
He blinks. “What?”
“How long has this been going on?” His mouth opens, closes. No sound. The pause is answer enough. “How long have you been screwing her, David?”
He flinches, but he doesn’t lie. He knows better than that. “A few months, maybe since February or so.” Something inside me shuts off. The pain is off, the rage is long gone, and I go numb. I’ve been beating myself for the last weeks, and especially the previous hours, thinking how I’m a hypocrite, thinking of ways we could work this out. Thinking that I could come home, tell him the truth about Ethan, ask for forgiveness, and try to move on. “Since February? Since your work trip to New York?” He nods.
