“My husband texted from vegas: ‘just married my coworker. You’re pathetic BTW.’ I replied: ‘cool.’ Then I blocked his cards and changed the house locks. Next morning, police were at my door…”

Through the peephole I saw two police officers on my front step—one older, one younger, both wearing expressions that told me they had already had too much of someone else’s chaos and it was barely breakfast.

I opened the door with the chain still latched.

The older one cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we got a call about a domestic dispute. Your husband says you locked him out of his home.”

My husband.

The phrase landed like something rotten.

Without a word, I lifted my phone and held the screen toward him through the narrow gap in the door.

The Vegas text glowed bright in the morning light.

His eyes moved across it once. Then he leaned slightly closer and read it again.

The younger officer bit his lip so hard I thought he might actually split it trying not to react.

The older one looked up. “Is this real?”

“As far as I know,” I said. “He sent it at 2:47 this morning from Las Vegas, after apparently marrying another woman.”