I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My first thought was that it involved work, perhaps someone from his office who’d gotten my number at the party.
I replied.
“Who is this?”
The answer came almost immediately.
“Hannah. The woman you saw at the party.”
My stomach dropped.
We met the next afternoon at a coffee shop across town.
I recognized her the moment she walked in.
She sat opposite me, wrapped both hands around her cup, and looked like she hadn’t slept much either.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
That was enough.
“How long?”
She swallowed. “About six months.”
I stared at the table.
Six months.
While I pushed the stroller every morning.
While I counted pounds.
While Ryan asked whether I’d “made progress.”
“He told me your marriage was basically over,” Hannah continued. “He said you two barely spoke anymore. That you’d let yourself go after the baby and stopped caring about the relationship.”
I looked up.
She winced.
“I know how awful that sounds.”
“No. Keep going.”
“He said he was going to leave. He just wanted to wait until the timing was right.”
“And then you saw us at the party.”
She nodded.
“He had his hand on you all night. He kept introducing you as his beautiful wife. He looked proud of you.”
I gave a short laugh that didn’t feel like one.
Then I started asking questions.
Dates.
Which nights.
Which “work dinners.”
Which weekends he’d supposedly been helping with a project.
I didn’t need many answers.
After a while, Hannah leaned back and whispered, “He made me think you were the problem.”
I looked at her.
“He made me think I was the problem too.”
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then her expression sharpened.
“What are you going to do?”
I looked down at my coffee.
An idea was already forming.
We properly exchanged numbers before leaving.
Two days later, I found Ryan in the living room scrolling through his phone.
“I booked us a night away,” I said.
He looked up.
