No Apology Required

My husband Michael was back, or so he said, but our home was a stage for a hollow play, thick with things he refused to acknowledge.

Months ago, I found a secret folder on his laptop: "Sanctuary."

Inside, years of emails and poems to his graduate student, Olivia, called her his "kindred spirit," labeling our life together "mundane."

I'd also found them at a restaurant.

When I confronted them, Olivia dramatically faked an injury, and Michael's sycophant colleague violently shoved me, cracking my head against the wall.