At first, I didn’t understand why the picture was in our family album.
Then I saw the reflection.
A woman’s hand was resting against his chest.
I stared at it.
My heart began beating faster.
I stood up.
The photo changed.
Another picture.
A hotel key sleeve sitting on a marble bathroom counter.
The Hilton logo was visible.
Then another.
Two glasses of wine on a nightstand.
Ethan’s watch beside them.
Then another.
His dress shirt hanging from a chair.
A woman’s black dress visible in the background.
I grabbed the photo frame.
My hands were shaking.
I stepped into the hallway because I couldn’t let my mother see my face.
I pulled out my phone and opened the shared album.
There were more.
Dozens.
Different dates.
Different hotels.
Different cities.
Ethan smiling in mirrors.
Ethan sitting across from someone whose face was never fully visible.
Two wine glasses.
Hotel beds.
Dinner plates.
Hands.
Clothing.
Little pieces of a life I had never known existed.
My knees felt weak.
I leaned against the hallway wall.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
I didn’t want to believe it.
I wanted there to be an explanation.
Maybe it was an old photo.
Maybe I was misunderstanding something.
Maybe the woman was a friend.
Maybe the pictures had been uploaded accidentally.
But there were too many.
And the dates were recent.
One was from three weeks earlier.
Another was from five days ago.
I sent Ethan one screenshot.
Nothing else.
Five minutes later, he called.
I stared at his name on my screen.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then he said quietly,
“I’m sorry.”