"Oh, I was worried you'd come home hungry, so I rushed up to cook for you. Didn't bother parking properly—just pulled in sideways and ran upstairs."
Jacob's demeanor was completely natural.
Not a single word out of place.
After all, every day when I came home from work, a hot meal was waiting for me on the table.
Jacob was a surgeon. His daily workload was enormous. Yet no matter how busy he was, he always found time to come home and cook for me.
Sometimes I told him to take it easy, not to push himself so hard. But he always said the same thing:
"Your health isn't great. The moment you get hungry, your hands start shaking and your heart races. I can't let that slide."
"I have to make sure there's a fresh, hot meal waiting the second you walk through the door. Nothing in the world is more important than that."
With that, he went back to bustling around the kitchen.
Before long, dinner was ready.
A full home-cooked spread—four dishes and a soup, every single one my favorite.
Jacob served me a bowl of rice and was about to sit down to eat with me when his phone rang.
He picked up, and his brow furrowed immediately.
"Got it. I'm on my way."
He hung up, yanked off his apron, and turned to me with an anxious look.
"Babe, there's an emergency at the hospital. A patient needs surgery and I'm the only one who can do it. I have to go."
He grabbed his car keys, pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, and hurried out the door.
The moment it closed, the apartment went silent.
I sat at the dining table, staring at the spread of food in front of me. I had no appetite.
The contents of that post were lodged in my brain like a splinter I couldn't pull out.
Everything Jacob said, everything he did—none of it was wrong.
But something felt off. I couldn't explain it.
I set down my chopsticks and stood up. Almost as if something were pulling me, I walked into the bedroom.
Everything was tidy. The bed was made with military precision, corners tucked tight—Jacob's handiwork. At first glance, nothing was out of place.
But the more pristine it looked, the more uneasy I felt.
I started searching the room, inch by inch.
The bed. No strange smells. Nothing that shouldn't be there.
The closet. No sign that anyone had gone through it.
The nightstand. Nothing but our usual things.
Even the trash can was spotless. Not a single scrap.
Everything was exactly the way it always was.
Was I really overthinking this?
I shook my head and turned to leave the room. But as I reached back to close the door, something under the bed caught my eye.
My heart stopped. I walked over immediately, crouched down, and fished it out.
An earring.
I didn't have pierced ears.
It belonged to another woman.
The realization hit me like a freight train. My head buzzed, hollow and deafening.
I stood there, staring at the earring in my palm, frozen for what felt like an eternity.
Then I pulled out my phone and scrolled back to that post.
Sure enough—just one minute ago, the original poster had replied to the comment he'd liked:
"I parked sideways in my wife's spot like you suggested, but she came home and didn't call to ask me to move the car. She just walked right in."
"If I hadn't heard the door, if I hadn't told my side piece to hide in time, I would've been caught red-handed."
The commenter had replied instantly: "Sounds like your wife's got sharp instincts."
And the poster wrote back: "Yeah. I made up an excuse and slipped out. On my way to drop off my side piece right now."
Jacob was really cheating on me.
And he'd brought her here. Into our home.
My hands trembled as I put my phone away and walked out of the bedroom.
I looked at the dinner spread on the table. Four dishes and a soup.
A sharp ache tore through my chest.
Jacob remembered every single thing I liked. He remembered that I got shaky and lightheaded when I was hungry. He remembered that I loved his goodbye kiss on my forehead before he left.
