Brandy

Brandy gives you an envelope after dinner. “Three days on the Gulf,” she says. “Fishing charter, hotel, everything. You’ve been stressed. I thought you could use the break.” You unfold the reservation. “I don’t want to go fishing.” Her smile falters. “Okay. I’ll change it.” “To what?” “There’s a campground upstate. Three days. You can hike, clear your head.” “You’re not listening. I don’t want to go anywhere.” She studies you, then nods. “Okay.” A few days later, your mom calls. She asks you to come upstate for those exact three days because she needs help around the house. The timing sits wrong. That night, you find Brandy in the kitchen. “Did you ask Mom to call me?” Her face changes. “No.” “Then why does she suddenly need me for the same three days you’ve been trying to get me out of the house?” She sets down the dish towel. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” Your stomach tightens. “Tell me what?” She looks toward the window. “My coworker is coming here.” “The guy from your office?” She nods. “For three days?” “Yes.” “While I’m gone?” She doesn't answer. You look at the envelope still sitting on the counter. The Gulf. The campground. Your mother. Three different places. Same three days. And suddenly, you understand. “You weren't giving me a break.” Brandy looks down. “You were trying to get me out of my own house.” “I needed some time.” “With him?” Her silence tells you enough. You take a step back, your hand catching the counter. After everything you built together, she had already decided who belonged here—and it wasn't you. Then she finally says it. “Go anywhere you want. I need you out of this house for three days. I don't care where you sleep.” **Your wife was sending you away so she could spend three days choosing someone else.**