For 22 years, Dave and I shared a quiet, predictable life—until he started taking out the trash at 3 AM. It was out of character, and soon I grew suspicious.
One night, I followed him. Instead of heading to the bins, he crossed the street to a blue house, where a woman in a red silk dress kissed him. I watched from the shadows, devastated.
Over the next week, I gathered proof of his nightly visits. Then one night, I simply asked, “How was the trash?” His face said it all.
I filed for divorce. It was painful, but I chose self-respect. With support and therapy, I began to heal. I rediscovered forgotten joys and learned that trust and self-worth matter more than routine.
The scars remain—but so does my strength.
