“Enough.” He crushed the cigarette. “Two options. We divorce. You leave with nothing, and everyone knows why. Or we stay married—but from now on, we are roommates. Nothing more.”

I stared at him.

“Jake has a future. I won’t let this destroy it. And a divorce won’t help your career either. So. The second option?”

“I agree,” I said quietly.

He carried his pillows and blanket into the living room and made the couch his bed.

“From now on, I sleep here. In public, you behave like a normal wife.”

That night, I lay alone in our bed listening to the springs creak in the next room. I had expected rage. Instead, he erased me.

The affair ended immediately. I texted Ethan: It’s over. He replied: Okay.

Years passed in icy civility. Michael left coffee for me each morning but never spoke. We attended events arm in arm, posing for photos like actors in a long-running play.

Now, sitting in Dr. Evans’ office nearly two decades later, that history felt suffocating.

“The lack of intimacy… is that correct?” she asked.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Eighteen years. Is that why I’m ill?”

“Not exactly.” She turned the monitor toward me. “I see significant uterine scarring. Consistent with a surgical procedure.”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I’ve never had surgery.”

“The imaging is clear,” she replied. “Likely a D&C. And it happened many years ago. Are you sure you don’t remember?”

A D&C. An abortion.

I left the hospital in a fog. Then a memory surfaced: 2008. A week after the confrontation, I spiraled into depression. I took too many sleeping pills. Darkness. Waking in a hospital with pain low in my abdomen. Michael saying it was from having my stomach pumped.

I rushed home.

“Michael,” I demanded, trembling. “Did I have surgery in 2008?”