She came home tired but satisfied, arms aching from bags, mind still ticking through prices and errands. The house was quiet—too quiet—but she didn’t think much of it at first. Until she walked into the bedroom.
There, in her bed, was her husband. And beside him was a young woman—pretty, soft-looking, the kind of beauty that makes your stomach drop before your brain catches up.
For a split second, she couldn’t even breathe. Shock gave way to fury. She turned on her heel, ready to storm right back out the door and keep walking until the anger burned itself out.
“Wait,” her husband said quickly. “Before you go, please. Just listen. Let me explain how this even happened.”
She froze, one hand still on the doorframe, every instinct screaming not to believe a word of it. But curiosity—and maybe years of shared history—made her pause.
“It started on my drive home,” he said. “I saw her on the side of the road. She looked exhausted. Poor. Like someone life had been rough to for a while. I stopped and offered her a ride.”
His wife crossed her arms, saying nothing.
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