My husband stood in front of the mirror, fixing his shirt like he was heading out on a date—not to work.

Too much cologne, too much excitement… far too much for someone claiming he had “meetings.”

I stood in the kitchen, watching the coffee finish brewing.
In my hand… a small bottle of laxative.

This wasn’t impulsive.

It came after months of silence, phone calls that ended when I walked in, and “urgent meetings” that always seemed to happen on Friday nights.