I didn't know it yet, but that was the day everything shifted.
The day Albert stopped belonging fully to our home.
The day another woman placed a life between us and demanded that he choose.
I would later learn how it happened—not from Albert, of course. Men like him never volunteer the truth. They leak it, little by little, when the weight becomes too heavy to carry. When guilt begins to rot them from the inside. When lies start slipping through the cracks of silence.
That afternoon, Albert had gone to June's place.
He didn't tell me, but I felt it.
There are days when your spirit senses betrayal before your mind can catch up. My chest had felt tight all morning, my thoughts restless, like something was about to break loose. Albert left the house without much explanation, saying only that he had "something to sort out."
I remember the way his voice sounded—strained, uncertain.
That was the first sign.
At June's house, she didn't waste time.
She had been waiting.
She stood in front of him, arms folded, eyes hard, her confidence sharpened by certainty. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't flirting. She wasn't pretending.
She was ready.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
Albert froze.
"What?" he asked, blinking like he hadn't heard correctly.
"I said I'm pregnant," June repeated, her voice calm, deliberate. "With your child."
He laughed at first—a short, nervous laugh that died quickly when he saw she wasn't joking.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "That's not possible."
June tilted her head slightly. "You think so?"
"You would've told me earlier," he said. "You're just saying this to scare me."
June reached into her bag and pulled out a small white envelope. She dropped it on the table between them.
"Test results," she said. "Hospital confirmed."
Albert stared at it like it might explode.
"This… this can't be happening," he whispered.
"But it is," June replied. "And you know it."
Silence stretched between them.
Albert ran a hand down his face, pacing. "June… you should've been careful."
She laughed then—cold, sharp. "So should you."
"This ruins everything," he muttered.
June's eyes narrowed. "No, Albert. This changes everything."
He stopped pacing and looked at her. "You can't keep it."
The words came out fast, desperate.
June stiffened. "What did you just say?"
"You can't keep it," he repeated, his voice lower now. "I'm married."
She smiled bitterly. "Ah. There it is."
"You knew what this was," he said. "You knew I had a wife."
"And you knew you were sleeping with me anyway," she shot back. "Don't suddenly grow a conscience now."
Albert swallowed. "I love my wife."
June stared at him. "Then why are you here?"
That question had no answer.
"I made a mistake," he said weakly.
"No," June said firmly. "You made choices. Over and over again."
Albert's voice cracked. "Please. Just… terminate it. We can make this go away."
Her eyes darkened instantly.
"Never," she said. "I won't."
"This will destroy my marriage," he pleaded.
June stepped closer. "Then maybe your marriage was already destroyed."
Albert shook his head. "Susan doesn't deserve this."
June laughed again, cruel this time. "Neither do I."
He reached for her arm. "June, please. Give me time. I'll figure something out."
She yanked her arm away. "There is nothing to figure out."
"Yes there is," he insisted. "I need time."
June crossed her arms. "You have two options, Albert."
She raised one finger. "You leave your wife. You be with me. You raise this child."
Another finger. "Or I tell Susan everything."
Albert went pale. "You wouldn't."
"I would," she said calmly. "And I will."
He stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
"You're blackmailing me."
"I'm giving you clarity," she corrected. "Choose."
Albert's voice dropped to a whisper. "Please… just give me some time to think."
June hesitated.
For a moment—just a moment—something flickered in her eyes. Maybe satisfaction. Maybe strategy.
"Fine," she said finally. "But not long."
"How long?" he asked.
"A few days," she replied. "After that, I won't be silent anymore."
Albert nodded numbly.
When he left her house, he was no longer the man who had walked in.
He was fractured.
That evening, when he came home, I knew something was wrong immediately.
He barely spoke.
Barely ate.
Barely looked at me.
He sat at the dining table, pushing food around his plate like he didn't recognize it. His eyes were hollow, distant.
"Are you okay?" I asked gently.
He flinched slightly, then forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"You've barely touched your food," I said.
"I'm not hungry."
"You didn't sleep well?" I pressed.
He shrugged. "Work stress."
I watched him closely.
This was different.
This wasn't guilt alone.
This was fear.
That night, he lay beside me without touching me. His back faced me, rigid, like a wall had risen between us. I wanted to reach out, to ask again, to pull him back into me.
But I didn't.
I had learned the cost of asking.
The days that followed were worse.
Albert became a ghost in his own home.
He left early. Returned late. When he was present, he wasn't really there. His phone stayed glued to his hand. He jumped at notifications. He stepped outside to take calls.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked him one evening.
"Yes," he snapped quickly, then softened. "Sorry. I'm just… exhausted."
"You can talk to me," I said quietly.
He looked at me for a long moment, like he wanted to. Like the words were choking him.
Then he shook his head. "There's nothing to say."
That night, he didn't come home.
I waited.
And waited.
The clock ticked loudly, each second heavier than the last. Midnight came and went. One a.m. Two.
I called him.
No answer.
I texted.
No reply.
I sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, heart pounding, mind racing through every possible excuse.
By morning, I knew.
Albert had chosen silence.
He had chosen avoidance.
He had chosen her.
He came home late the next day, smelling unfamiliar—soap that wasn't mine, sheets that weren't ours.
"Where were you last night?" I asked quietly.
He hesitated.
"I stayed out," he said finally.
"With who?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
He went straight to the bedroom and shut the door.
That was the night Albert didn't just cheat on me.
That was the night he crossed a line he could never erase.