While doing laundry, a task I normally enjoyed, my world fell apart. A handwritten note slipped from my husband David’s clothes: “Happy anniversary, babe! These 7 years have been the best of my life. Meet me at Obélix, Wednesday at 8 p.m. Wear red.”
We had been married for 18 years.
Shocked, I recalled his late nights, “work trips,” and my blind trust. Instead of confronting him, I planned. On the night of his dinner, claiming to be working late, I donned a red dress he once bought me and followed him to the upscale restaurant—one he hadn’t taken me to in years.
I found him greeting another woman in red. With a mix of shock and guilt on his face, he admitted he told her we were separated. Her confusion mirrored mine.
I left without a scene but told him our daughters deserved an explanation—one I wouldn’t give. That letter ended our marriage, and though painful, it set me free.
