He finally turned toward me.
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have gone through my phone.”
Those words hurt more than I expected.
For six years, I had been his wife. I had shared his struggles, celebrated his achievements, and stood beside him when he had nothing more than a modest salary and dreams of becoming a successful businessman.
When he was sick, I stayed awake beside him.
When his business failed, I encouraged him to start again.
When his relatives questioned why we had no children, I defended him whenever anybody suggested that he might be the problem.
Yet now, when I had discovered that he was having a child with another woman, the only thing he could accuse me of was checking his phone.
“Kelly, please,” I whispered. “Just tell me the truth. Are you sleeping with her?”
He looked away.
That silence was my answer.
My name is Ella, and before that terrible morning, I had believed that the greatest tragedy of my marriage was my inability to become pregnant.
