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Wife Texted At 2 A.M: “Busy Now, I’ll Call After.” I Replied: “Don’t Bother. Stay With Him...

Two in the morning, the whole house asleep except for me and the stubborn faucet coughing water into the sink like it's trying to confess something. I’m hunched over with a wrench, fighting with a washer that doesn’t want to cooperate, when my phone buzzes across the counter.

“Working late again. Don’t wait up. – M”

Marta. My wife of twenty-three years. The woman who used to text me pictures of grocery receipts asking if we needed more milk. Now she sends messages that feel like they were written by a bored paralegal. Eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night—sure, perfect time for a family law attorney to “work late.” The silence she leaves behind feels lighter than it should, and that alone tells me more than any text ever could.

When she finally slips in at nearly three in the morning, she moves like a burglar—quiet steps, held breath. And despite pretending to sleep, I smell it immediately: someone else’s cologne clinging to her blouse like a signature. She lies beside me, rigid and careful, offering excuses wrapped in legal jargon, while I play the part of the clueless husband—something I’ve been practicing a little too well lately. In the dim light, I study the outline of a woman who once looked at me like I was the whole world. Now she can’t meet my eyes long enough to remember who I used to be.

By morning, she’s gone again—no note, no kiss on the cheek, just a single used mug in the sink and enough leftover coffee for exactly one cup. Hers. Not ours. And as I sip the bitter remains, one thought echoes louder than the dripping faucet I fixed the night before: my marriage isn’t falling apart. It already has.

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