Water Damage

The ceiling water stain had spread overnight. Sarah traced its outline with her eyes—now it resembled a map of some imaginary continent she'd never visit. Downstairs, James was probably sleeping, or pretending to.

She found him in the kitchen, his face illuminated by his phone screen. The cat—his mother's inheritance, now theirs—wound around his legs, purring traitorously.

"You told me you were working late," she said.

James jumped. The cat skittered. "I was. Then I wasn't."

"Whose baseball tickets were those?"

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. That's when she noticed it—the pale strip of untanned skin on his left ring finger where he'd removed his wedding band. Her stomach dropped.

"It's not what you think," he started.

"Show me your phone."

"Sarah, please—"

"Palm open. Now."

He hesitated, then placed the phone in her outstretched hand. The messages were explicit enough. The photos worse. A woman she'd never met, wearing Sarah's favorite sweater.

"How long?" she whispered.

"Six months."

Six months. While she'd been worrying about the water stain, about his mother's cancer, about whether they could afford to fix the furnace. He'd been living a parallel life.

The cat rubbed against her ankle, oblivious. Sarah looked at James—really looked at him—and realized she didn't recognize this person anymore. Maybe she never had.

"I'm staying with Maya tonight," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I'll come back for my things tomorrow."

He left without his jacket. Sarah stood in the kitchen as his car pulled away, watching the water stain expand above her head, thinking about how some damage, once done, couldn't simply be repaired.