The pregnancy test sat in my purse like a loaded gun. Two pink lines. Positive. The word I'd dreamed of seeing for three years of marriage, and it had finally appeared on the morning I'd decided to end everything. The universe had a sick sense of humor. I stood outside our bedroom door—*my* bedroom door, technically, since I'd been the one making mortgage payments while Marcus "built his career"—and listened to the sounds coming from inside. Rhythmic. Unmistakable. The headboard I'd picked out at IKEA tapping against the wall in a tempo that made my stomach turn. Not from morning sickness. From pure, crystalline rage that had frozen into something colder than anger. Acceptance. I'd suspected for months. Maybe longer. The late nights at the office. The phone calls he'd take in the other room. The way he'd started saying "we" when he talked about work, and I knew he didn't mean him and his male colleagues. The perfume on his shirts that wasn't mine—something floral and young and desperate. But suspecting and knowing are two different countries, and I'd just crossed the border. I checked my watch. 10:47 AM on a Tuesday. He'd told me he had an important client meeting this morning. Told me not to come home for lunch like I sometimes did. Told me he'd be "tied up" until late afternoon. He wasn't wrong about being tied up. Through the door, I could hear her giggle—high-pitched, breathy, everything I'd never been. Everything Marcus apparently wanted. My hand was steady as I turned the doorknob. Three years of marriage had taught me many things, but the most important lesson was this: never let them see you break. The door swung open silently. We'd had the hinges oiled last month. I'd done it myself while Marcus was at another "late meeting." They didn't notice me at first. Too wrapped up in each other, literally. The sheets I'd washed on Sunday were tangled around their bodies. Her dark hair—so dark it was almost black—spilled across my pillow. His hand was in that hair, gripping it the way he used to grip mine, back when he'd still touched me like he meant it. I recognized her immediately. Sienna Park. The "colleague" he'd mentioned exactly twice in three years, both times in the last six months. "Just someone from the marketing team," he'd said. "You'd like her." I wouldn't. She saw me first. Her eyes went wide, and she let out a little squeak of surprise that might have been comical in any other situation. She grabbed for the sheets, trying to cover herself, as if modesty mattered now. Marcus turned his head, following her gaze. For a moment—just a fraction of a second—I saw something flicker across his face. Not guilt. Not remorse. Annoyance. He was annoyed that I'd interrupted. "Ava." He said my name like an accusation. Like I was the one who'd done something wrong by coming home to my own house. "What are you doing here?" I almost laughed. Almost. But laughter required energy I didn't have. "I live here," I said calmly. "Though I'm realizing that might be more of a technicality at this point." He had the decency to get out of bed, at least. Grabbed his boxers from the floor and pulled them on with sharp, angry movements. "This isn't what it looks like." "It looks like you're fucking another woman in our bed." I kept my voice level, emotionless. Three years as a litigation paralegal had taught me how to stay calm when everything inside me was screaming. "So unless you've discovered a new definition of the word 'fucking,' I think it's exactly what it looks like." Sienna had managed to wrap herself in the sheet—*my* sheet—and was edging toward the corner of the room where her clothes lay scattered. Her face was red, but I couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or exertion. I didn't care. "How long?" I asked. Marcus ran his hand through his hair, the same gesture he used when he was trying to figure out how to spin a situation to his advantage. I'd seen it a thousand times. "Ava, let's talk about this when we're both calm—" "I am calm." I pulled my phone from my purse, ignoring the pregnancy test that sat right next to it. "How. Long." He glanced at Sienna, who was now fully dressed and looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Good. I hoped it did. "A year," he finally said. "A little over a year." A year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days of lying to my face. Of coming home and kissing me with the same mouth that had been on her. Of sleeping next to me in the bed they'd apparently been sharing whenever I wasn't around. The pregnancy test in my purse suddenly felt heavier. "I want a divorce," I said. Not "we need to talk." Not "how could you." Not "I thought you loved me." Just the facts. Clean. Simple. Final. Marcus actually looked surprised. "You don't mean that." "I've never meant anything more in my life." "Ava, come on." He took a step toward me, and I took a step back. He noticed. His jaw tightened. "People make mistakes. We can work through this. Couples therapy, whatever you want. I made a mistake—" "A year isn't a mistake, Marcus. It's a choice. You chose her." I looked at Sienna, who was trying to disappear into the wallpaper. "Multiple times, apparently." "It's not like that with her," Marcus said, and then seemed to realize how that sounded. "I mean, it's not serious. You're my wife. That means something." "It clearly doesn't mean enough." The pregnancy test was burning a hole through my purse. I could tell him. Right now. Watch his face change. Watch him backpedal and apologize and swear he'd be better. Watch him try to trap me with obligation and guilt and the baby I'd wanted so desperately. The baby I still wanted. Just not with him. Not anymore. "I'll have my lawyer send the papers," I said instead. "I'm keeping the house. You can have everything else. I don't want anything that reminds me of you." I turned to leave, and his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. Not hard, but firm. Possessive. "You're being irrational," he said. "You're upset, I get it, but you're not thinking clearly. Where are you even going to go?" I looked down at his hand on my wrist, then up at his face. This man I'd loved. This man I'd built a life with. This man whose child was currently the size of a poppy seed inside me. This stranger. "Anywhere but here," I said softly. "Let go of me, Marcus." He did, eventually. And I walked out of that bedroom, out of that house, out of that life, with nothing but my purse and the secret growing inside me. I didn't cry until I was in my car. And even then, I didn't cry for him. I cried for the woman I'd been when I walked in. The one who'd still had hope. The one who'd thought maybe, just maybe, she'd been wrong about everything. That woman was gone now. And good riddance.