I was sitting next to my husband’s ex-wife on a flight. At first, it felt like some cosmic prank—two strangers assigned adjacent seats, only for the universe to reveal we weren’t strangers at all. She introduced herself with a warm smile, the kind that suggested she already knew more about me than I was comfortable with. “Grace, right?” she’d said. “Oscar’s new wife?” Her tone was polite, almost kind, yet layered with something unreadable. As the plane smoothed into the clouds, I found myself gripping the armrest, unsure whether this encounter was fate, coincidence, or a warning I hadn’t yet learned how to interpret.
It took only minutes for the conversation to drift toward the home I shared with my husband. According to her, it was their dream house first—blueprints sketched over late dinners, paint colors chosen together, kitchen counters they both once agreed would be “perfect for Sunday pancakes.” I listened, trying not to let my surprise show. Oscar had never mentioned that the place we’d spent three years turning into our sanctuary had been imagined by someone else before me. “We’ve made changes,” I finally said, maybe too quickly. “It’s our space now.” But she only smiled, as though she’d expected my answer. It wasn’t a cruel smile, just one full of history—history I suddenly realized I barely understood.
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