We met.
Not at my house. Not at hers. But in a quiet café tucked in a corner of the city.
I arrived early. She walked in a few minutes later, calm, composed.
Younger than me. Dressed with care.
Her makeup was soft, her lipstick red but neat, untouched by smudge.
She sat across from me, and for a moment I almost forgot to breathe.
She didn't look guilty.
Not at all.
She looked at me the way someone does when you're interrupting their love story.
And then she spoke about the meals they cooked together.
In the afternoons, he held her hand.
The room they rented is just a few streets away from my own home.
The motels are booked during lunch breaks.
Each word landed like glass shattering quietly inside me.
And then she said it:
"He told me we're… compatible. Even in bed."
I sat still.
Strange.
We had been together more than a decade, and not once had he told me who he really was.
What he wanted.
What he dreamed of.
With me, silence.
With her, confessions.
I kept my eyes on hers. Dry. Unflinching.
And I asked, my voice steady: "If you love him?
If you're serious about being with him. I'll file for divorce. Just say the word."
Her gaze dropped.
For the first time, her mask slipped.
A few seconds passed before she whispered:
"I'm sorry.
I'll quit.
I'll leave the company.
I swear… I'll never contact him again."
I smiled.
Not because I believed her.
But because, in that moment, I saw myself clearly for the first time, a woman who once thought her pain might be enough to teach another woman to stop.
But pain doesn't teach.
It only scars.