The study door was slightly open and I saw my usually confident husband holding the pink lace ribbon that should have been in the trash.
His eyes were red as he cried and breathed heavily. Then he whispered one word, “Noelle.”
In that moment, something inside me broke. The fortune teller was wrong. Jackson hadn’t cheated in our fifth year; his heart and body had been apart long before that.
The next day, I still wanted a divorce, but Jackson wouldn’t sign. He came home on time every day with my favorite pink roses, thinking that would fix everything.
But less than two days later, Noelle kept posting Instagram stories. One showed her wrist wrapped in bandages with the caption: [If my existence is causing trouble for you, I’ll disappear.]
A photo of her getting an IV at the hospital appeared, with the caption: [Don’t worry about me. It’s all my fault.]
A selfie in front of a university building, with the caption: [Youth that won’t come back. People I can’t forget.]
I sent the screenshots to Jackson. He called Noelle and shouted, “Noelle, stay away from Elizabeth! If you don’t, don’t expect me to show mercy just because we used to be friends!”