My name is Clara Jensen. I’m thirty-four, and a year ago I would have laughed if someone told me my marriage would end before I even realized it was already dead.
But at 2:47 a.m. on a Tuesday, laughter no longer existed in me.
The house was unnaturally quiet. I had fallen asleep on the couch, the TV muted, the screen washing the room in pale light. When my phone vibrated, I reached for it lazily, assuming it was nothing—maybe Ethan texting from his work trip in Vegas.
Instead, my breath vanished.
The first thing that loaded was a photo.
Ethan—my husband of six years—standing beneath the neon glow of a Vegas wedding chapel.
Beside him was Rebecca, his coworker.
They were holding marriage certificates.
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