I can still pinpoint the second my confidence curdled into judgment.
I was halfway through dinner at a cozy Italian spot on Maple Street—low lighting, scratched wooden tables, garlic thick in the air—when something across the room caught my eye. I froze mid-bite.
There was Sarah. My neighbor’s wife.
And she wasn’t alone.
A man sat close beside her, knees nearly touching. His hand rested over hers. She laughed softly, leaning in, the kind of laugh you don’t perform—you share. It wasn’t dramatic. That was the problem. It felt easy. Familiar.
My chest tightened.
How could she?
Her husband, Mark, was the kind of person neighborhoods brag about. He shoveled snow that wasn’t his. Fixed things without being asked. Checked in when someone got sick. Watching his wife with another man felt like witnessing a quiet betrayal, one I suddenly felt responsible for correcting.
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