I had left for work at 8:30 that morning, kissed Ryan goodbye like I did every day, told him I loved him. He smiled — that same smile I’d fallen for seven years ago — and said he’d see me tonight.
At 3:00 p.m., sitting in my car after a canceled meeting, I scrolled through our home camera footage out of boredom. We didn’t have kids yet, but I’d installed the system two years earlier after a break-in on our street. Ryan knew about it.
What he must have forgotten was the bedroom camera.
At 9:47 a.m., the bedroom door opened.
Ryan walked in.
He wasn’t alone.
A woman followed him — long brown hair, tight red dress, laughing at something he’d said. She reached for his hand and pulled him toward our bed. The blue comforter I picked out last spring. The bed where I slept every night beside the man I trusted with my whole heart.
My hand started shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone. I wanted to stop watching. I couldn’t.
I sat frozen, watching my husband kiss another woman. Watching him unzip that red dress. Watching him betray every promise he’d ever made to me.
I watched for 23 minutes.
Twenty-three minutes that destroyed my entire world.