I didn’t love that she’d decided without looping me in, but fine—she was trying.

The place smelled like burnt toast and old coffee. She came home smiling, talking about regulars, coworkers, and tips. Picked up a Saturday shift. For a while, it felt good seeing her light up.

Then the odd stuff started.

She stopped showing me paystubs. I found a deposit slip with a bank we don’t use. She brushed it off—“staff credit union”—but the next morning I followed her. Not to the café. To an apartment building I’d never seen. Twenty minutes in, twenty minutes out. Every Tuesday.

That’s when I asked, calm as I could: “Is there someone else?”