At first, it was just little things.
That was what I kept telling myself every time my husband came home late with his tie loose, his shirt wrinkled, and his eyes fixed anywhere but on me.
“Work’s been crazy,” he’d say, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door.
I wanted to believe him.
For eight years, I had believed him about almost everything. I believed him when he said marriage was about trust. I believed him when he said he wanted a quiet life with me. I believed him when he kissed my forehead and promised, “Mia, you’re the only woman I’ll ever need.”
So when the late nights started, I made excuses for him before he even had to make them for himself.