And there, on the left side of the table, was my wife. She was wearing a dark red dress I’d never seen before, her hair done in loose waves, laughing at something.
continue 👇
And next to her, close enough that their shoulders were touching, was him. I knew who he was. Damian Richards, the creative director who joined her company about eight months ago.
She’d mentioned him in passing. Damian has some interesting ideas about the rebrand. Or Damian suggested this new approach to the campaign. Always Damian this, Damian that. I’d made a mental note of it but never said anything.
I didn’t want to be that husband, the jealous, controlling type. But looking at this photo, seeing how comfortable they looked together, how she was angled toward him, how his hand rested on the back of her chair, all of it crashed over me like a wave.
I zoomed in further. There were wine glasses, multiple bottles on the table. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. She looked happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy. When was the last time she’d looked at me like that?
I scrolled through the other tags. A few more photos from the dinner, the group getting progressively more animated, more drinks appearing. But in every single photo that included my wife, Damian was right there next to her.
Then I found it. A photo posted by someone else at the dinner, time stamped at 10:03 p.m. Most of the group was gone, just four people remained at the table.
My wife and Damian were two of them, sitting close, very close, his arm now clearly around her shoulders. The caption, The party people keeping it going. Party pooper. I felt sick.
Physically, viscerally sick. I ran to the bathroom and dry heaved over the toilet, my body trying to purge what my mind couldn’t process. When I finally steadied myself, I washed my face with cold water and looked in the mirror.
The man staring back looked hollowed out, older than his 34 years. I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white. She had lied. Maybe not explicitly, but through omission, through misdirection.
