I always thought grief was a quiet thing, but the night I followed Robert into that alley, it roared in my ears like a freight train. The sight of him leaning toward that blue-haired girl, my packing paper crinkling between them, carved a hollow right through my ribs. Every late-night trash run, every half-answer, rearranged itself into one brutal picture: I was the fool who hadn’t seen the affair unfolding under her own porch light. When he whispered, “Not yet,” like a promise, the world narrowed to the sound of my own pulse, and I realized there are moments when a marriage doesn’t just crack—it shea… Continues…
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