Seven Years of Lies:My Wife's Secret Affair

She said the family dinner was in full swing, the elders were all there, and it wasn't a good time to talk. Her voice was gentle as she told me to treat myself to something nice.

I believed her. I even felt sorry for her—having to steal a moment in the middle of all that celebration just to think of me, alone.

The following year, during the Mid-Autumn Festival, I made the snowskin mooncakes she loved and had someone deliver them to the Henson residence. They vanished without a trace.

The next day, she said she'd gotten them. Delicious, she told me, but the family dinner had strict etiquette—she couldn't exactly pull them out and share.

I believed her. I even blamed myself for not thinking it through.

Year after year.

The same excuse. The same tenderness.

The same me, alone in the same solitude, never once doubting.

Until those three photographs—like three ice-cold keys—unlocked the door to the truth.

Outside the window, dawn crept in. I heard faint movement from the master bedroom.

Yvette was awake.

Before long, she tiptoed through her morning routine—washing up, getting dressed—without coming to the guest room to wake me the way she usually did.

The front door clicked shut. Her footsteps faded down the hallway.

I threw off the covers, pulled on a jacket, and grabbed my car keys.

In the underground garage, her white sedan glided out of its spot.

I hung back a few cars' length and followed.

She didn't take the road toward the Henson estate. Instead, she turned east, heading for the upscale apartment district on the other side of the city.

The car stopped outside a gated complex. A moment later, a man in casual clothes stepped out.

He was smiling—easy, familiar—as he opened the passenger door and slid in.

Theo Gilbert.

The man from the photographs came into sharp focus.

They didn't leave right away. Through the windshield, I watched Yvette lean toward him. They held each other tightly.

Then came a long, deep kiss.

Their movements were practiced and effortless, as though they'd done this a thousand times before.

The occasional passerby drifted through the complex entrance. Neither of them cared.

My heartbeat was steady. Too steady.

The rage I'd expected, the sting, the suffocation—none of it came. Just a vast, frozen silence.

Maybe this was what it truly felt like when the heart dies.

The white sedan pulled away again, heading into the most upscale mall in the city center.

I parked, tugged my cap low over my eyes, and followed them inside.

They moved through the crowds like any other couple. Yvette had her arm looped through Theo's, and on her face was a radiant smile I had never once seen directed at me.

They walked into a high-end menswear boutique. She picked through shirts and jackets, holding them up against his chest while he grinned and dipped his head to oblige her. In the end, she swiped her card for a complete set—shirt, trousers, jacket, the works.

Next was a shoe store. She crouched down and personally helped him try on a pair of leather shoes that cost more than I wanted to think about.

The sales associate hovered nearby, offering compliments. Yvette looked up at Theo, her eyes bright.

Finally, they stepped into the luxury watch boutique I had walked past countless times but never dared enter.

Through the glass, I watched Theo's gaze land on a mechanical timepiece behind the counter. He tapped the display case.

Yvette barely hesitated. She waved the clerk over.

Card swiped. Gift wrapped. Just like that.

I stood behind a pillar not far away, my throat tightening.

Seven years of marriage. Apart from a pair of ordinary socks picked up at a department store, Yvette had never bought me a single piece of clothing.

She knew I loved watches. More than once, I'd lingered in front of magazine ads or storefront displays.

Every time I cautiously brought up the idea of upgrading to a nicer watch, she would furrow her brow just slightly and say, in that soft but unyielding tone of hers, "Accessories like that are too expensive. They're not worth it."

"We'll have plenty of expenses down the road. No sense spending money on something like that."

And I would fall silent, sheepish, pressing that small want back down where it came from.

Now, without so much as a blink, she'd bought another man the very thing that "wasn't worth it."