Erin came home to find her belongings scattered across the front lawn and her husband’s mistress already settling in. What he hadn’t accounted for was exactly how little of what he was so sure of actually belonged to him.
My name is Erin Castellano. I’m thirty-two and I live in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
The jazz club was supposed to be a distraction — my best friend Maren’s idea, two hours of music loud enough to drown out months of fertility appointments and the particular silence that had grown between my husband Brett and me since our second failed round.
I was almost laughing again, almost feeling like myself, when Maren went quiet mid-sentence, eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. “Is that… Brett?”
I didn’t even need to finish turning around to know. Some instinct older than thought already knew what I was about to see: my husband at a corner table, a young woman draped across his shoulders, his face turned toward her ear.
