I hardly slept. Food tasted like nothing. His words — “I love her” — replayed in my mind on an endless loop.
Then came the knock.
It was evening. The dishwasher hummed softly. The kids were in their rooms. I was folding towels when I heard three light knocks. Not urgent. Almost hesitant.
I opened the door.
Marcus was kneeling on the porch, eyes swollen, suit wrinkled, voice unsteady.
“Claire,” he whispered. “Please. Forgive me. I made a mistake.”
I stood still.
“Camille isn’t who I thought she was. She left. As soon as she found out I was cut out of the will, she left. Packed her things and blocked my number. She just… disappeared.”
His voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose our family.”
I looked at him for a long moment. This was the man who stood beside another woman and called it love in front of our children. The man who humiliated me at my own table without hesitation.
And now he wanted me to repair the damage.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t cry.
I simply said, “No,” and closed the door.
Two days later, my friend Melissa called. Her tone was hushed and urgent.