“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…”

I reached for it lazily at first, still half in sleep, expecting something mundane. Maybe Ethan letting me know he’d landed. Maybe a coworker with an early meeting question. Maybe one of those delivery texts from a pharmacy because every company in America seemed to think midnight was a great time to remind you your shampoo was ready for pickup.

Then I saw his name.

And then I saw the text.

Just married Rebecca. Been sleeping with her for eight months. You’re pathetic btw. Your boring energy made this easy. Enjoy your sad little life.

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time because my brain refused to accept that the arrangement of those words on a screen could still belong to the same universe as the house around me, the coffee mug on the table, the wedding photo in the hallway, the half-used bottle of his aftershave sitting upstairs in our bathroom.

I did not scream.

I did not burst into tears.

I did not throw the phone.