But the next morning, while he left for work, I took a personal day. Instead of going to work, I drove straight to a lawyer’s office. My hands shook on the wheel the whole way.
The lawyer, Mr. Peterson, was a nice guy in his fifties who listened as I told him about the photos, the money moves, and Nora’s confession about missing school. He nodded serious and pulled out a yellow notepad.
“Eveline,” he said, looking up from his notes, “we’re going to get ahead of this. And trust me, judges don’t like men who use their kid to hide an affair.” For the first time, I felt like I had backup.
“What do I do now?” I asked.
“Write down everything. Get copies of those bank statements. Keep those photos safe. And most important, act normal till we’re ready to file.”
Over the next two weeks, I turned into a detective in my own life. I gathered everything I could. I even found emails on our shared computer about “business dinners” that weren’t business at all.
The hardest part was pretending everything was fine. Making Garrett his morning coffee, asking about his day, and sleeping next to him while my heart raced with anger and hurt. Each fake smile felt like a mask.
“You seem tense lately,” he said one night at dinner, reaching for my hand.
I looked across the table at him, this man I’d loved for ten years, who was calmly eating spaghetti while planning to leave us.
“Just work stress,” I lied smooth. “The Henderson account is keeping me up.”
