My stomach dropped before my mind could catch up. I took the laptop from his hands. My fingers were trembling so badly that it slipped and nearly hit the floor. I caught it just in time, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears.
I told him to go back to his room and tried to keep my voice steady. He nodded, but his eyes stayed on me, filled with confusion and fear. I sat at the kitchen table and opened the folder. And my world shattered. There were dozens of photos—some taken in places I recognized instantly: our guest room, my sister’s apartment, even our couch.
In the photos, my husband and my sister were wrapped around each other, laughing, kissing, touching. There was no misunderstanding and no innocent explanation. My hands went numb. I couldn’t breathe. Every memory of the past year replayed itself in cruel clarity: my sister visiting more often, my husband staying late at work, the looks they exchanged that I had dismissed as nothing.
