The restaurant smelled like truffle oil and aged wine—luxury distilled into the air. Everything about Le Fleur whispered success, celebration, certainty. After twenty-five years of marriage, it felt like the right place to mark how far we’d come. Sitting across from David in the warm glow of candlelight, I allowed myself to believe we were solid. Proven. Safe.
He looked good in that familiar way that comes from shared history. A little gray at the temples, relaxed, confident. We’d started with almost nothing—big dreams, an old car, and more hope than money. Over decades, we built a life: two grown children, a steady home, memories layered on memories. I thought we were unbreakable.
Our meals arrived, plated like art. I lifted my knife, smiling, ready to enjoy the moment.
Then David spoke.
“I’m leaving, Sarah.”
The words were flat. Emotionless.
My hand froze midair.
“What?” I whispered.
He met my eyes, disturbingly calm. “I’ve fallen in love with someone else. It’s been a few months.”
The room kept moving while my world stopped. Laughter floated from another table. A waiter passed. No one noticed my life splitting open.
Cold spread through me. “Who?” I asked.
He exhaled, impatient. “That doesn’t matter. She makes me feel young again.”
Tears came instantly, unstoppable, spilling onto the pristine tablecloth. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. Twenty-five years collapsed into flashes—our first apartment, late nights with newborns, quiet routines I thought meant forever. My untouched dinner sat in front of me, suddenly obscene.
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