It wasn’t until two hours later, with my chai latte going cold and the words on the page blurring, that I decided to check on Eric.
I opened the nanny-cam app we’d installed after a string of neighborhood break-ins. While the footage loaded, a knot formed in my stomach.
When the video finally appeared, my chest seized.
A woman walked into our kitchen — my kitchen — as though she’d been there a hundred times before. Long, glossy brown hair. A fitted cream sweater. Heels clicking across my tiles like a metronome.
She wasn’t cautious. She wasn’t lost. She moved like she belonged there.
Eric followed behind her, smiling.
“Mel,” he said, voice soft.
“This house always smells so good. It’s the cinnamon, isn’t it, babe?”
He slid his arms around her waist like it was habit. She leaned back, tilted her head, and their lips met.
In the café, I sat frozen, staring at my phone like it had betrayed me too.
