I opened the messages. There it was. A sprawling, undeniable digital chronicle of a parallel life. The woman’s name was Melissa. There were pictures: a sleek luxury apartment I didn’t recognize, ultrasound photos, and finally, a newborn boy. Scrolling further, my numb fingers uncovered a bank transfer receipt to a shell account in her name. Fifty thousand dollars. For nursery furniture and rent, the memo read. Fifty thousand dollars drained from the life I had financed with my own sweat, handed over to a woman barely older than the suit jackets in his closet.
Every cellular instinct within my body screamed at me to act. The primal, betrayed wife inside me demanded that I kick down the bathroom door, hurl the glass phone directly at his smug, wet face, and scream until my vocal cords shredded. I wanted to tear his clothes from the closet, to burn the house down, to demand an explanation for the ultimate betrayal.
