My Husband Cheated While Our Son Was Dying

The notification arrives while I'm in the studio.

I'm standing in front of the closet. The door is open. The wrapped watercolors are still stacked in the back. Brown paper. Twine. I haven't touched them yet.

But I'm here. That's something.

My phone buzzes. A text from someone I went to college with. Haven't spoken to her in two years.

*Saw this and thought of you. Hope you're doing okay.*

There's a screenshot attached. Instagram. A photo.

I open it.

Katalina Dean. Brock. A rooftop somewhere in Manhattan. Golden hour light. Her hand on his chest. Both of them smiling like they're in a perfume ad.

The caption: *Finally living authentically 💫*

I zoom in. She's wearing a silk blouse. Cream-colored. Delicate buttons. I've never seen it before.

But I've seen the charge. Fourteen hundred dollars. A boutique in SoHo. Three months ago.

I screenshot the post. I save it to the folder. I close the app.

I stand there in the studio with my phone in my hand.

I don't feel rage. I don't feel hurt.

I feel the cold, clean clarity of a woman who now has everything she needs.

I turn back to the closet. I look at the wrapped watercolors.

Not today. But soon.

I close the door.

---

Saturday morning. The doorbell rings at nine.

I'm at the kitchen table with coffee and a sketchpad I bought yesterday. I haven't opened it yet. It's just sitting there. White cover. Blank pages.

I open the door. Dana Okafor is standing on the stoop with two grocery bags.

'Morning,' she says.

She doesn't wait for an invitation. She just walks in. She's been doing this for months. Showing up. Making coffee. Sitting in the kitchen without asking questions.

I follow her inside. She sets the bags on the counter and starts unpacking. Apples. Bread. Eggs. Things I forget to buy.

'You eat today?' she asks.

I look at my coffee cup. 'Not yet.'

She nods. She pulls out a carton of eggs. She starts cooking.

I sit back down at the table. The sketchpad is still closed. I trace the edge of it with one finger.

Dana glances over her shoulder. She sees the pad. She doesn't say anything. She just turns back to the stove.

I pick up the pencil.

I open the cover.

The first page is blank. White. Empty.

I look at the kitchen window. The way the light falls across the sill. The shape of the coffee cups on the counter. The angle of Dana's shoulders as she cracks eggs into a pan.

I start to draw.

Just lines at first. The window frame. The curve of the cup. Nothing deliberate. Just my hand moving.

Dana hears the pencil. The soft scratch of graphite on paper. She glances back. She sees what I'm doing.

She turns away quickly. She focuses on the eggs. She doesn't watch. She doesn't comment.

She just lets me draw.

I fill the page slowly. The lines take shape. The kitchen window. The light. The ordinary morning.

When Dana sets the plate in front of me, I'm still drawing.

'Eat,' she says quietly.

I set the pencil down. I look at the sketch.

It's not good. It's rough. Unfinished.

But it's the first thing I've drawn in over a year.

Dana sits down across from me. She doesn't ask to see it. She just eats her eggs.

I pick up my fork.

We eat in silence. The sketchpad stays open on the table between us.

---

Brock comes home that evening around six. He's in a good mood. I can tell by the way he walks into the kitchen.

I'm at the table with my laptop. He pours himself a glass of wine. He leans against the counter.

'I made a reservation,' he says.

I look up.

'Dinner,' he continues. 'Next Friday. Marea. Eight o'clock.'

I wait.

'I think we should have dinner together,' he says. His voice is calm. Reasonable. Practiced. 'All four of us. You, me, Katalina, and your therapist.'

I close my laptop slowly.

'Since we're both clearly seeing other people,' he continues, 'we should be adults about it. Civilized. Transparent.'

He takes a sip of wine. He's smiling slightly.

'I already made the reservation,' he says. 'I put it on the card. You just need to bring him.'

I trace the rim of my coffee cup.

'Okay,' I say.

Brock blinks. He was expecting resistance. Protest. Something.

'Okay?' he repeats.

'Yes.'

He nods slowly. He finishes his wine. He goes upstairs.

I sit at the table for a long time after he leaves.

Then I pick up my phone. I call Finn's office. It goes to voicemail.

I leave a message. My voice is quiet. Precise.

'It's Emilia. Something's happened. Brock made a dinner reservation. Next Friday. Eight o'clock. Marea. He wants you to come. He's calling it a double date. He thinks you and I are—' I stop. 'You don't have to come. I just wanted you to know.'

I hang up.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rings. Finn's number.

I answer.

'What time is the reservation?' he asks.

His voice is steady. Calm. But there's something underneath it. Something tight.

'Eight o'clock,' I say. 'Friday. But you don't—'

'I'll be there,' he says.

Silence.

'Are you sure?' I ask.

'Yes.'

Another pause.

'Emilia,' he says quietly. 'I'll be there.'

We hang up.

I sit in the dark kitchen of the house I own.

I am awake.

And Friday is coming.