I added it to a digital folder already filled with six months of evidence – credit card charges for jewelry and dinners, records of calls gone unanswered, screenshots of missed video chats with my children. The betrayal wasn’t sudden. It had been creeping in, like cracks spidering across glass.

Three years earlier, I’d kissed Derek and our children goodbye at Fort Campbell. Maddox, then eleven, tried to be brave though his chin quivered. Eight-year-old Brinn clung to my leg, begging me to promise we’d go to Disney World when I came back.

The first year, we managed: daily emails, weekly video calls, care packages. By my second tour, Derek’s face grew more distant on screen. He angled the camera away, claiming he looked too tired. Calls grew shorter, until they barely occured at all.

By the third tour, Maddox and Brinn were slipping away from me. Brinn stopped appearing on calls altogether. Maddox whispered that “Dad said not to bother you.” Then came the credit card alerts: luxury restaurants, a Cartier purchase Derek claimed was for a client’s wife. My gut told me otherwise.