Page 22 of Letting Go

Like he was waiting for the chance.

That was his solution to everything after that. Quit. Don’t fight. Don’t escalate. Just quit. And when I didn’t, when I couldn’t, not without burning everything I’d worked for to the ground, he stopped listening again.

The last six months? Practically nothing between us but silence.

He started accusing me of choosing work over him. Of prioritizing it. Maybe I did. But maybe I had to. Because at least it respected me.

Now, with this new opportunity, this huge, ridiculous promotion, I don’t even want to call him. I don't want to hear the quiet in his voice. I don't want to downplay it just so he doesn't feel small.

Even if the cheating is all in my head…

Even if he’s done nothing wrong…

I don’t know if our marriage will survive this.

I don’t know if I want it to.

I check my phone again.

Last ping from the Air Tag shows Mike almost home.

Shit.

He was in the office an hour ago. How is he already there?

I’m more than an hour out, closer to two with traffic. I don’t even remember where I parked. Somewhere near that last boutique. My arms are full of bags, shoes, dresses, a stupid amount of crap I probably bought to distract myself.

I break into a jog, heels clacking against tiles. People stare. Let them. I probably look insane, sweating, juggling Dior and Zara like a reality TV meltdown in motion. I don’t care.

I find my car. Toss everything in the trunk, slam it shut.

Driving home is a blur. I’m flooring it and also gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles go white. A part of me wants to slow down. To breathe. To pull over and throw up. The other part wants to catch him red-handed. Wants to know. Once and for all.

I get there nearly two hours later. Apparently, my version of driving carefully is still too slow when your heart’s sprinting ahead.

I park across the street. Kill the engine.

The house looks the same. The street looks the same. Everything looks normal. But it feels off.

I walk to the door quietly, heart in my throat.

It’s unlocked.

Mike. Always forgetting. It has to mean he’s alone, right?

I push the door open as silently as I can. Step inside.

No voices. No footsteps. No TV hum. Just the hum of the AC and the blood rushing in my ears.

There’s no one in sight, only a beer bottle on the coffee table.

But something in me says not to let my guard down yet.

My heels whisper up the stairs. Tap, tap, tap. Like they’re announcing me to God and whoever else is listening. The house is quiet, too quiet. That kind of heavy silence you only get right before the storm or right after a crime scene. And I don’t know which I’m walking into.

The bedroom door is open and the light is on.

Maybe he forgot.

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