That was when I noticed the spare phone on the nightstand, the one he always kept close but never let me touch. I had never tried to unlock it in the four years we had been married.
Tonight, I did.
It took only one guess, sure enough, it was Jacqueline’s birthday. The first thing I saw was his pinned chat: [Lovely Jacqueline.]
I clicked on it.
The messages were endless. Sweet, thoughtful. Full of warmth and care, more than I had ever received from him.
She sent him pictures, and he responded with the kind of affection I used to wish for. Every single one of her photos was saved.
An entire album. A thousand pictures labeled as: [LOML.]
Love of My Life, huh? I already knew, deep down. But seeing it spelled out so clearly still hit me like a punch to the chest. Tears burned in my eyes, slipping down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Then I checked his private drive. Thirteen years’ worth of memories, all about Jacqueline. Even her menstrual cycle was marked in red. A "special reminder."
And yet, when we were newly married, when I curled up in pain from years of untreated injuries, Scott had just glanced at me, stone-faced, and muttered, "Why are you being so dramatic?"
Then he’d walked away.