Tears tracked down Elena’s face. She spoke about the blur of the days that followed—the screaming, the denial, the physical ache of it. She tried to stay strong for the baby.
But at the funeral, a woman she didn’t know showed up with a toddler in her arms. She was a dispatcher at the firehouse. She told Elena the boy was Andrew’s son.
It turned out everyone at the station knew about the affair. Everyone except Elena.
The shock sent her into early labor. She lost the baby that night in the hospital. Her body simply gave up under the weight of the betrayal.
A few days later, she went back to their house, packed her things, and handed the keys to the other woman. The house had been in Andrew’s name, and she felt it belonged to his only living child. She didn’t want a penny of it.
She asked for a transfer to the most remote location they had. That’s how she ended up in this town, trying to bury her past in work.
Andrew was stunned. He asked if she had ever forgiven him. Elena just looked at the water and said she mostly just missed the person she thought he was.
She told him she’d never be able to have children again. Andrew reached out, hesitant, and told her she was still young—that life wasn’t over yet.
When she turned to look at him, the air between them changed. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them on that quiet road. Andrew leaned in and kissed her, a desperate, honest moment.
She pulled back, whispering, “What are we doing?” But the damage was done. Susan had spent years accusing him of an affair, and in that moment, the prophecy finally came true. But Andrew didn’t feel the guilt he expected.
For the next month, their secret meetings were the only time he felt alive. For the first time in his life, he felt a connection that wasn’t based on obligation or habit.
He realized he had married Susan because it was the “right thing to do” at twenty-five. He had lived his life on autopilot, following the script everyone else wrote for him.
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