We were young in the way that makes you confident and stupid at the same time. You know what I mean?

We shared a checking account with $20 in it.

We argued about groceries like they were matters of national security. Then I caught him cheating on me. There was another woman.

And another. And another.

That wasn’t just a mistake or a moment of weakness. It was a pattern that was unforgivable.

By the time I’d counted up all the lies and half-truths and convenient omissions, it felt less like betrayal and more like humiliation. Like I’d been the punchline to a joke everyone else was in on. When I told him I wanted a divorce, he shrugged.

It hurt that it was so easy for him to let me go; an insult added to the injury of his lies and betrayal. Like our marriage never meant anything to him. Everyone expected drama.

Friends braced themselves for shouting matches, slammed doors, and scenes in parking lots. My parents warned me to prepare for begging, threats, or some desperate attempt to win me back. What no one expected was Dorothy.

I went to her house because I didn’t know what else to do. She’d always been so good to me, even when Caleb was being difficult and things were hard, she’d been a steady presence. I thought she deserved to hear it from me, not through some family grapevine or awkward phone call.