I still remember the way my fork froze halfway to my mouth.
I was sitting in a small Italian place on Maple Street, the kind with flickering candles and scratched wooden tables, when I saw her. My neighbor’s wife. Sarah. She was at a corner table with a man I’d never seen before. They were close—too close. His hand rested over hers. She laughed softly, leaning in like the rest of the world had disappeared.
My first thought was hot and immediate: How could she do this to him?
Her husband, Mark, was one of the good ones. The kind who shoveled everyone’s driveway after a snowstorm without being asked. The kind who fixed my fence when it blew over and refused payment. I felt anger rise in my chest on his behalf, sharp and righteous. By the time I left the restaurant, I’d already decided—I was going to tell him.
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