I stole a married man. Not just a husband, but a father of three. A man who had built a life with someone else, who had promises carved into the walls of his home, who had children who looked up at him with trust in their eyes. And I tore it all apart.
At the time, I called it love. I told myself that passion justified cruelty, that desire excused betrayal. I became someone I didn’t recognize—sharp-tongued, selfish, and vicious. His wife once called me, her voice trembling through the phone, begging me to stop. She cried, pleaded, asked me to give her family back. And I, drunk on arrogance, spat venom into her wounds. “Save your whining for someone who cares,” I told her coldly. “He’s gone. Fix yourself.” That was me. That was the person I became.
For a while, I thought I had won. I thought I had claimed the prize. A year later, I was pregnant, glowing, convinced I was building the life I had stolen. I imagined us as a family, him and me, with our child. I thought the universe had rewarded me.
Then came the note.
