At my father-in-law’s funeral, I expected grief, quiet stories, maybe a few awkward hugs—but not betrayal.
And definitely not the kind that would surface because of something my four-year-old saw while crawling under a table.
Arthur and I had met in a book club, fell for each other debating Hemingway, and built a life I thought was unshakable. He was thoughtful, dependable, devoted—or so I believed. We had our routines, our little boy Ben, and a peaceful rhythm to our days.
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