I thought leaving after my husband’s affair would be the hardest thing I’d ever do. I thought the worst was already behind me. But then I walked back into that house and saw him—standing in the middle of our bedroom, scissors in hand, cutting my dresses into pieces. He didn’t even look ashamed. He looked smug. “I don’t want you looking pretty for other men,” he said, slicing through silk like it was wrapping paper. “If you’re leaving, you’re not taking this with you.” That was the exact moment I

I wasn’t supposed to be at this wedding. That much was clear from the sideways glances, the fake smiles, and the whispers that followed me as I walked across the golden, glittering hall. The place was breathtaking, I’ll admit that. Ivory flowers hung like clouds from the ceiling, tall gold candelabras flickered with soft flames, and every guest wore gowns or tuxedos that probably cost more than my rent. On the surface, it looked like a perfect fairytale. But no amount of sparkle could cover up the rot underneath. Because

I always thought I knew exactly what was happening inside my own house. But the night I found my pregnant daughter lying on the floor, everything I believed about my marriage started to crumble. My name’s Rufus. I’m 55 years old, born and raised in Indiana. Most of my adult life, I’ve worked in logistics for a freight company, traveling from state to state. People would probably describe me as steady and predictable—I like my routines, I manage money carefully, and I’m not the kind of man who talks a