He started talking fast, throwing words into the room as if they could outrun facts. He said it was complicated. He said I had been distant. He said it meant nothing. He said men get lonely too.
Every sentence made me feel worse, not because I believed him, but because I realized how long he had been rehearsing explanations for the day I finally found out.
I told him to stop blaming me. I told him I knew enough. I said her name out loud and watched his face shift in a way I still cannot forgive.
The shame disappeared first.
Then the fear.
Then something uglier settled over him, something hot, entitled, and vicious, the kind of anger that rises when a man realizes his private power is no longer private.
He crossed the room so quickly I barely saw him move.
Then he hit me.
Only once, but hard enough to send me crashing sideways into the dresser, hard enough for the wood to slam into my hip and for the room to flash white for a second.
My cheek burned immediately. My ears rang. My hands went numb. I stared at him, too stunned even for fear, and he stared back like he hated me for making him visible.
Then, instead of apologizing, he said the sentence that split my life into before and after.