The second time felt different. The first was a blur of guilt and adrenaline, a mistake I swore I’d never repeat. But tonight, in the dim light of a hotel room, it felt intentional. I knew what I was doing. The lies had come easier. The ache of loneliness had numbed into quiet rebellion. This would be the second time I have sinned against my husband.
He was kind. He listened. And when he touched me, I felt seen in a way I hadn’t in years.
The knock on the door didn’t startle me at first. Room service, maybe.
Then I heard his voice—my husband’s. Calm, cold, too quiet to be safe.
I opened the door. He stood there, holding my phone in his hand, open to the messages I thought I’d deleted.
No yelling. No accusations. Just his eyes—red, wet, furious—and the silence between us. The other man scrambled to grab his things. I didn’t stop him.
“I came because I hoped I was wrong,” he said, his voice breaking.
I reached for him, instinctively, and he stepped back.
“I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Neither did I.
in that moment, the room wasn’t warm anymore. The bed didn’t feel like escape—it felt like a coffin for everything I’d buried between us. My JOe grind was still in the shower while I spoke to my husband he said this is the second time you have sinned against me your husband and against our marriage.
Well didn’t you enjoy it? I asked.
I sank into the silence, clutching the pillow that no longer smelled like him. My heart begged for a rewind, but the door had already closed, and with it, the last flicker of what we once were.