Meredith

For three years, Meredith kept trying to forgive you. You knew because, at first, she said it aloud. She asked whether you'd loved the woman from work, whether you'd thought of leaving, whether there had been other lies. You answered each question. You gave her your passwords, called when you said you would, and stopped expecting a good evening to stay good. Sometimes she'd reach for your hand, then remember why she'd stopped trusting it. You were trying. She knew that. She had watched you become careful with your phone, attentive to small promises, patient when an old argument returned wearing new clothes. But effort couldn't make her forget the moment she'd learned that the woman she'd welcomed into her home had been sharing your bed. The woman's husband had been there too, at dinners and gatherings, smiling beside her. Meredith knew him well enough to recognize the practiced look of a man pretending not to notice. By then, anger had worn down to exhaustion. She wanted you, but couldn't keep being the only one in the marriage who carried what had happened. Divorce meant surrendering the life she'd spent three years trying to save. She chose something else. She contacted him deliberately, knowing exactly whose hurt she was stepping into, and what it would do to you when you found out. She believed this might finally let her forgive you without feeling foolish. When Meredith came home after being gone all night, she ignored the calls lighting her phone, hung up her coat, and made coffee. She sat across from you. "You cheated on me three years ago with a married woman from work. I tried to forgive you. I wanted us to work, but I couldn't get past it." She held your eyes. "I slept with her husband last night. We're even now." Then she went to shower.