"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."
Ethel's demeanor was perfectly 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.
Ethel was a surgical doctor. Her workload was enormous, yet no matter how busy she got, she always found time to come home and cook for me.
Sometimes I told her to take a break, to stop pushing herself so hard. But she always said the same thing:
"Your health isn't great. You get shaky and lightheaded the moment you skip a meal. I'm not taking any chances."
"I need to make sure there's a hot, fresh meal waiting for you the second you walk through that door. Nothing in the world is more important than that."
She went back to the stove.
Before long, dinner was ready.
Four dishes and a soup. Every single one, my favorite.
Ethel served me a bowl of rice and was just about to sit down and eat with me when her phone rang.
She picked up, and her brow furrowed instantly.
"Okay. I'm on my way."
She hung up, yanked off her apron, and turned to me with urgency written across her face.
"Honey, there's an emergency patient at the hospital. I'm the only one who can operate. I have to go."
She grabbed her car keys, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, and hurried out the door.
The moment it closed, the apartment fell silent.
I sat at the dining table, staring at the spread of food in front of me. I had no appetite.
The content of that post was lodged in my brain like a splinter I couldn't pull free.
Everything Ethel said, everything she did—none of it was wrong.
But something felt off.
I set down my chopsticks. Stood up. And as if pulled by some force I couldn't name, I walked into the bedroom.
Everything was immaculate. Ethel had made the bed with military precision, the corners tucked tight. At a glance, nothing was out of place.
But the more perfect it looked, the more uneasy I felt.
I started searching. Carefully. Methodically.
The bed. No strange smells. Nothing that didn't belong.
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 speck of dust.
Everything was exactly the way it always was.
Was I really just overthinking this?
I shook my head and turned to leave the room.
That's when I saw it.
A short strand of bleached-blond hair, lying on the bed.
My hair was black.
This belonged to another man.
The realization hit me like a freight train. My skull buzzed, a high-pitched ringing drowning out every other thought.
I stood frozen, staring at that single strand of yellow hair for what felt like an eternity.
Then I pulled out my phone and scrolled back to the post.
Sure enough. One minute ago, the woman had replied to the comment she'd liked:
"I parked sideways in my husband's spot like you suggested. But he came home and didn't call me to move the car—just walked right in."
"If I hadn't heard the door, if I hadn't made my lover hide in time, I would've been caught."
The original commenter had replied instantly: "Sounds like your husband's got sharp instincts."
And the woman wrote back: "Tell me about it. I made an excuse and slipped out. I'm driving my lover home right now."
Ethel was cheating on me.
She'd brought her lover into our home.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I put the phone away and walked out of the bedroom.
I looked at the four dishes and the soup sitting on the table.
A sharp pain lanced through my chest.
Ethel remembered every single thing I liked. She remembered that I got shaky and lightheaded when I was hungry. She remembered that I loved when she kissed me goodbye before she left.
But she forgot the one thing that mattered most.
I despise betrayal.
