“He was with her.”
Mom closed the magazine.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
I told her about the hotel lobby, the coffee, and the messages.
She listened quietly.
When I finished, she took my hand.
“You know what hurts the most about betrayal?”
I shook my head.
“Sometimes, it’s not the thing they did. It’s discovering how many ordinary moments you misunderstood because you trusted them.”
I looked at her.
She continued.
“You remember all the evenings he said he was tired. All the times she asked whether you were happy. All the conversations that suddenly look different now.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Exactly.”
“Don’t let that make you doubt every good memory you’ve ever had,” she said. “What they did was their decision. You don’t have to rewrite your entire life to take responsibility away from them.”
I leaned forward and hugged her.
For the first time in two days, I felt as though I could breathe.
