The responses to my group text were everything I’d expected and worse.
My Mom: *Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.*
Her Mom: *This can’t be real.*
My Sister: *Holy hell, Mark. I’m coming over.*
Jake’s ex-wife, Michelle: *I KNEW IT. He did this to me, too.*

But the best ones were from people I barely knew. Sarah’s principal, her teacher friends—people who’d always seen her as this sweet, devoted wife. *I can’t believe this. Poor Mark. What a snake.* The video had been forwarded, screenshots shared. By now, half our town had probably seen my wife riding my brother like a porn star.

I drove back to my house Saturday morning. Sarah’s car was gone. Jake’s, too. Good. The spare key was still under the fake rock where we’d always kept it, which meant she hadn’t even tried to change the locks. Probably couldn’t afford a locksmith without access to our accounts.

Inside, the house looked like it had been ransacked. Drawers pulled out, closets emptied. She’d taken everything she could carry but left behind everything that mattered. Wedding photos still on the mantle, turned face down. The expensive dishes we’d gotten as wedding gifts, probably too heavy to move. The furniture we bought together.

There was a note on the kitchen table, four pages long. Her handwriting, the same handwriting that had written me love letters in college. I skimmed it. *Mistake. Sorry. Didn’t mean for this to happen. Can we please talk? I love you. Please don’t destroy my life over this.*

Too late for that.