Chapter 4Low-Maintenance Wife

I went home looking for evidence.

A movie stub, an unfamiliar coffee mug, a man's sweater left behind.

If I found just one thing, I could shove the agreement back in her face and demand an explanation before we ever spoke of divorce.

I knew it was pathetic.

Yet during our conversation this morning, she had been far too composed.

She was ready to walk out, ready to leave our son with me, ready to take an equitable split without a fight.

I desperately needed to prove that she wasn't standing on moral high ground.

In the closet, half of her hangers were bare.

In her nightstand drawer, there was only a residential lease agreement and two health screening summaries.

The lease commenced last month.

I snapped a picture of the address, then moved to the dresser.

Her wedding band sat inside the velvet jewelry box, right beside the tiny hospital wristband Henry had worn when he was born.

She hadn't touched either of them.

A sudden dread paralyzed me.

Finding another man's traces would tear me apart.

Finding nothing would be worse.

Because finding nothing meant she wasn't leaving for another man. She simply couldn't stand being in this house with me for one more day.

That afternoon, I drove to the address on the lease.

When Lily opened the door, there was no surprise in her eyes.

The apartment was modest—a single bedroom, a living area dominated by a large drafting table covered in architectural elevations.

On the windowsill sat a newly potted white jasmine plant.

I used to complain that her houseplants cluttered our sunroom.

Here, without a single trace of my belongings, her world looked strangely whole.

"Where's Lucas?"

"He doesn't live here."

I walked past her into the bedroom. A twin bed sat against the wall.

The tight coil in my gut loosened a fraction.

Lily didn't block my path. She merely said, "When you're done looking, please leave. If you need to come by in the future, give me advance notice."

That sentence reignited my fury.

"You already rented a place behind my back, and you expect me not to ask questions? How long has this been going on?"

"We met working on a project last fall. We started seeing each other privately in February."

It was May.

I counted backward and immediately remembered February—the weekend she had asked if I could fly home early.

"That hospital visit—"

"A follow-up ultrasound for a breast nodule. The clinic required an accompanying adult. He drove me."

I lunged for that explanation like a lifeline.

A woman feels vulnerable, her husband isn't around, another man happens to step in.

That was how these things happened.

It didn't necessarily mean deep affection; it was just a moment of gratitude, a temporary lapse of judgment.

A sudden, generous wave of magnanimity washed over me.

"The test was fine, right?"

"Benign. I sent you the report."

I remembered the screenshot I had swiped away.

"I was swamped that day. If you really needed me, you could have called a second time. Would I have ignored you?"

Lily rolled up the blueprint on the table and slid it into a cardboard tube.

"I did call you. You answered and said you were in a meeting, telling me not to make a mountain out of a molehill."

That weekend, I had been at a hillside spa resort. Sabrina had been lounging beside me in a plush terrycloth robe, browsing room service menus.

When Lily's call came in, Sabrina saw the caller ID, stayed silent, and rested her bare feet on my knees.

I answered, listening to Lily say the imaging center wanted an immediate follow-up and suggested family accompany her.

Sabrina flashed her phone screen at me, asking whether I preferred the French toast or the smoked salmon platter.

I pointed to the salmon and spoke into the receiver:

"I'm in a conference. Go get it checked, and let me know what the doctor says when you get home."

Lily hadn't hung up right away.

"Sean, I'm a little scared."

I remembered feeling a momentary pang back then.

But Sabrina had already leaned in, wrapping her arms around my waist, waiting for me to disconnect.

The spa getaway had been booked two weeks in advance. I had fought hard to carve out the weekend, driving three hours into wine country.

Turning the car around then would have ruined the entire trip.

Besides, checkups were rarely anything serious.

So I had reassured Lily:

"Don't psych yourself out. If there's an issue, the specialist will flag it. Hang up for now, I've got people waiting on me."

She had whispered, Okay.

After I hung up, Sabrina asked if I had to head back.

I muted the phone, set it on the nightstand, and pulled her in.

"I'm not going anywhere. I promised you this weekend."

She smiled, leaning up to kiss my neck.

Holding her, I had experienced a brief, passing discomfort.

But that discomfort dissolved in minutes.

The follow-up report Lily texted me later remained unread until we checked out on Sunday.

By then, Sabrina was asking the front desk attendant to take our picture on the veranda.

I swiped the notification away, stepped beside her, and slipped my arm around her waist.

Now, standing in Lily's bare apartment, I didn't offer another excuse. I knew I had no ground to stand on.

Yet after a long silence, the ugly question tore past my lips anyway.

"Did you sleep with him?"

Lily looked right into my eyes.

"No. We kissed."

The words landed like a fist to the solar plexus.

Whatever magnanimity I had scraped together vanished instantly. My mind locked onto those two words.

I wanted to scream at her, but I knew I had zero standing.

That lack of standing infuriated me more than picturing them together.

I let out a bitter sneer.

"Then you're not exactly morally superior to me, are you?"

"No," she said evenly. "Starting something new before formally ending my marriage was wrong. I made a mistake."

She owned it.

No excuses about loneliness, no attempt to use my three years of cheating as an offset.

Yet her confession didn't bring me the slightest relief. It left me even more raw.

Because she added:

"But staying with you? That, I can't do."

That afternoon, I finally realized I had never wanted a fair playing field.

If she admitted to being wrong, what I really wanted was for her mistake to be so filthy, so unforgivable, that shame would force her to stay by my side.