On Friday, George once again cleaned the kitchen and took the trash out. But since we had guests that evening, the next morning, I went to throw out the trash.There were receipts from a restaurant I’d never been to. A hotel key card, unfamiliar lingerie, used napkins stained with lipstick that I wouldn’t be caught wearing. There were empty bottles of wine that I’d never seen in my home.

My stomach dropped as I realized it.Initially, I thought I was overthinking, maybe it wasn’t what it looked like.But what else could it be? Deep down, I knew.George cleaning our home wasn’t about him being mindful or thoughtful of me. This was all about George covering his own tracks.

While I was killing myself with night shifts at the hospital, George was wining and dining other women in my home. He was laughing with them in the very space where our family had shared so many meals.He had been using my late nights to cover for himself. He was cleaning up, erasing any trace of his dirty little secrets.