When it passed, I wiped my face.
Opened my laptop.
I typed the name of a family law attorney I had seen recommended in a local Facebook group eight months ago, when a friend was going through her own divorce.
I had scrolled past it then, thinking: *not something I’ll ever need.*
I stared at the name on the screen for a long time.
Then I opened a new browser tab instead and searched for something else.
I searched for Daniela.
It didn’t take long.
Ryan’s gym was public on his Facebook profile, still visible to me, still showing check-ins.
Daniela had tagged him there once, fourteen months ago, in a comment on a group post.
Her last name was Reyes.
Her profile was mostly private but her profile photo was visible — a woman in her early thirties, dark hair past her shoulders, laughing at something off-camera.
She looked kind.
That was the worst part.
She looked genuinely kind.
I closed the laptop.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Ryan.
*I’m at Marcus’s.
I’m not going to bother you tonight.
But I need you to know I’m sorry.
Not for getting caught.
Sorry for what I did.
There’s a difference and I know you know that.*
