When my husband came home that evening, I didn’t yell or cry. I simply placed the laptop on the table and opened the folder. His face drained of color. After a long silence, he whispered my name and reached for me. I stepped back.
“How long?” I asked.
He tried to explain. He said it “just happened.” He said he was confused. Then he said my sister “understood him in ways I didn’t.” Each word felt like another cut. When I asked about our son—about the fact that he was the one who found the photos—my husband finally broke down.
