Flames erupted, heat rushing toward me. I pushed past him to stop the fire, my hands stinging as I stomped at the blaze. That’s when I saw what he was destroying—hundreds of photographs, curling in the heat. In them, Jordan stood beside a dark-haired woman in a wedding dress, holding a young boy with his gray eyes. There were birthdays, vacations, Christmas mornings—evidence of another life entirely.
When I confronted him, the truth spilled out. Her name was Camille. They had been together for nine years. The boy, Tommy, was his son. Two weeks earlier, both had died in a tragic car accident caused by a drunk driver. He hadn’t gone to a funeral for a friend—he had been mourning them alone and came here to erase the evidence before I found out.
In an instant, every unexplained “business trip” and weekend away made sense. He admitted he loved her, but also claimed to love me. With them gone, he wanted me to stay and somehow rebuild what was left. But standing there, I felt his grief for them like a wound cutting deeper into my own heart.
We drove home in separate cars. That night, he paced the driveway, asking if I would leave. I told him I didn’t know. Part of me wanted to forgive; another part wanted to burn down the life we’d built—just as he had tried to burn those photos. Space doesn’t erase lies, and it doesn’t restore broken trust.
Now I stand in the ruins of our marriage, unsure if I will be the woman who stays to rebuild, or the one who walks away to reclaim herself after decades of unknowingly living in second place. For now, I am deciding whether any of this is worth saving.