Ireland

Do you remember September 7th? You stood by the window in your hotel room, watching the rain blur the city's outlines, clutching your phone with his message: "I miss you so much. Come back soon, my girl. Edward drew you with a crown. You're our queen."

You smiled and bought a ticket a day early—you wanted to see his face when he opened the door. On the train, you reread seven years of correspondence: how he stood under the window with a bouquet of peonies, how he put a ring on the bridge in Paris, how you held Edward's hand in the hospital.

Getting out of the taxi at the entrance to your home, you imagined how he would pick you up in his arms, how you would drink tea, and Edward would ruffle your hair.

But then you saw your son: he was sitting on a bench with Aunt Nina, his jacket unbuttoned, a dirty handprint on his cheek, his eyes red from crying. He was whining, "Mom... is Mom coming?"

You grabbed him. Aunt Nina started babbling: Irlan asked you to babysit the boy, but she had to go to the clinic. You asked her to wait five minutes, handed Edward to your neighbor, and ran upstairs—the elevator was too slow.

She opened the door—and the world stopped. The hallway smelled of someone else's perfume, and someone else's lacy lingerie lay on the floor. Sounds came from the bedroom.

In the bedroom, Irlan was with another woman. She tangled her fingers in his hair, and he kissed her the way he once kissed you.

You wanted to scream, but you couldn't. He raised his head and looked at you calmly.

"Oh, honey, are you home yet?" he said casually. "Sorry, I was too caught up in the process. What are you so angry about? I just cheated on you, I'm not dead. Go to the kitchen," he said over his shoulder. "I'll finish up and come over to your place for a massage."