A delicate, unfamiliar pair of panties, smugly perched on my side of the bed.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t storm out into the night.
I stood there, staring, like the breath had been quietly knocked from my chest.
And then — I did something that surprised even me.
I picked them up.
I washed them.
And I wore them.
The Calm Before the Storm
He came home not long after. Keys jingling, door opening with a familiar creak. I was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, calm and composed in someone else’s lingerie.
“Look, baby,” I said, standing to greet him with a kiss on the cheek.
see more on the next pageHe froze.
Just for a moment. The mask slipped.
Then: “Yeah… they look great on you.”
He disappeared into the bathroom for twenty minutes. No explanation. No apology.
I sat in silence, staring at my reflection in the hallway mirror, wondering if I had finally snapped — or if I had finally woken up.
Seven Years of Settling
We had been together for seven years. Married for four. Somewhere along the way, affection had dulled, smiles grew polite, and he started coming home later and later, smelling of cologne I didn’t recognize.
And I — foolishly, loyally — blamed everything but him.
Work stress. Routine. Maybe even myself.
But lace on my pillow wasn’t an accident.
It was a dare.
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