Chapter 7
The next morning or maybe it’s already afternoon, I wake up with a headache that could kill a small animal and a heart that feels like it was scraped raw. I'm hungover, heartsick, and heavy with memories I wish I could forget.
I love Aiden. I really do. But I’ve put up with so much. And it’s not all his fault. I shaped our relationship into what it became. I made it too easy for him. He could do nothing wrong and I’d still worship him. That’s not love. That’s desperation.
When he first went off to college and I was pregnant with Jackson, he came home every weekend.
Even if he had class early Monday, he’d hop on a late-night bus just to be with me.
And I told him not to. I told him to enjoy college, to have fun.
I didn’t want to be a burden. And slowly, his visits lessened.
I didn’t say a word. I let that silence rot inside me until it hardened into resentment.
I had no idea how much it all bothered me until last night. I thought we had the perfect marriage, or close to it. At least, I thought it was better than most. Not many high school relationships survive two kids before you’re even old enough to legally drink. We did. Or so I thought.
When I found out I was pregnant with Jack, it felt like a bomb had gone off inside my body.
My first instinct was abortion. Not because I didn’t want him, but because I didn’t want him to feel unwanted.
I didn’t want my child to grow up knowing they weren’t planned, that they were a mistake.
That’s why I gave Aiden the chance to leave.
No strings. No guilt. I wanted our baby to be loved, not tolerated.
Telling Aiden had not been easy. I had expected him to leave, had prepared for it but he didn’t.
He asked me what I wanted and told me he’d support me no matter what.
And he did, almost. But telling my grandmother…
that was terrifying. She’d raised me with the love I never got from my parents.
She was a veteran nurse, stern and practical, and when I told her I might have to postpone college, I could see the storm gathering behind her eyes.
But when I told her I was ready for this, that I wanted this baby, she softened.
She let me stay. She let me raise Jack in her home even after I graduated, even though the plan had always been for me to go to UMass.
Telling my parents wasn’t even an event.
My grandmother told them for me. Their reply came in a text.
“Are you sure about this?” That was it. I never responded.
They didn’t come around until Grandma died, when Jack was four.
They showed up to the funeral, saw the only grandchildren they’d ever have already grown, and decided to stay.
But the house was mine. Grandma left it to me, and I wasn’t about to let them move in.
They found their own place, finally understanding the distance they’d carved between us.
I wasn’t the girl begging for their love anymore.
We could afford daycare by then, but they insisted on helping, said they wanted to get to know the boys. I let them. At the end of the day, they’re family. I’d rather my kids be surrounded by family than strangers.
Enough moping. I get up and head to the shower. The water is hot, soothing. I take longer than I should, letting the steam clear my mind. I borrow jeans and a shirt from Quinn, she’s a little shorter than me, but they fit well enough. I can’t bring myself to wear dresses right now.
Quinn’s in the kitchen when I come down. She looks up from her mug.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I answer. My voice still sounds cracked.
“How you feeling?”
“Better than yesterday. Sorry about dumping all that on you.”
She waves it off. “Please. I should be the one apologizing. I practically threw my degree at your face.”
I smile faintly. “I needed to hear it. I was living in a bubble and it finally popped.”
She nods. “Have you come any closer to a decision?”
“I don’t think I’ll know what I want for a while. I already texted the kids. They’re having a blast with their grandparents.”
“And Aiden?”
“I told him to stay out of sight. I don’t care where he is, just as long as he doesn’t screw up and let the kids find out we never left.”
Quinn’s quiet for a second, then says, “You should figure out what you’re going to do before you tell them. Nothing messes with a kid’s head like not knowing if their parents are staying together or not. Trust me.”
Her voice shifts, softer. “My parents’ divorce was a mess. They used me like a pawn. One day they were together, the next they weren’t. Then they were again. Then they weren’t. I had a breakdown before they finally figured out their shit. They're together now, but I stay out of it.”
“I get that,” I say. “The boys don’t expect us back for a week. So I guess we have seven days to decide if this marriage is worth saving.”
I sink into the couch. “I need help. Not therapy, not yet. Help from people who’ve been through this. I need to know what to do.”
Quinn raises an eyebrow. “I’d dial my mom for you, but she’s married to her cheater again.”
I laugh dryly, then pull out my phone and type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘support groups for people who’ve been cheated on.’
A few options pop up. One at the local community centre starts in thirty minutes. I show it to Quinn. “This one.”
“You should go.”
“Come with me.”
She shakes her head. “This isn’t like confronting a couple of frat boys. You need to do this. Alone. Take my car.”
She’s right. I grab her keys and head out. The community centre is in the opposite direction of my house, which makes it easier to breathe. I’m not ready to run into anyone who knows me.
Ten minutes later, I park and grab a cup of coffee from the café across the street. The cup is hot in my hands, as I carry it across the street.
I ask someone where the group is. I don’t say the name out loud, just gesture at the screen on my phone. He points me down a hallway to the right.
The room is exactly what you’d expect, chairs in a circle, dim overhead lights, a faint smell of carpet cleaner. A few people are already seated. I take a chair beside a man who gives me a kind smile.
“I’m Dan,” he says. “New?”
“Kate. And yeah. How’d you know?”
“Not many new faces at the two o’clock meeting.”
People trickle in, finding seats. A woman with white hair stands up and claps her hands once. “Alright. This is a Support Group for Surviving Infidelity.” She smiles. “Or as I like to call it, the ‘My Partner’s an Asshole’ club. I’m Trish.”
No one says “Hi, Trish.” Thank God.
“I know we’ve got a new face today. But let’s start with anyone who wants to share.”
A woman raises her hand. “Hi. I’m Leana. Two years ago, I found my husband in bed with my sister. My nineteen-year-old sister.”
People nod like they’ve heard this before. She keeps going.
“I divorced the asshole. But I stayed close to my sister. She was young. He took advantage. I know that, up here.” She taps her temple.
“But in here…” she touches her chest “…it still hurts. I remarried and we moved here recently. My sister visits sometimes. Yesterday, I came home and found them cooking together. Nothing was wrong. But my heart… that woman who walked in on them? She still lives in me. And I hate her.”
She finishes. Another woman starts. “I’m Jackie.
My husband has a mistress. He thinks I don’t know.
But I do. The wife always knows. I have to stay.
For the kids. He has the money. We have a prenup.
If I leave, I lose everything including custody.
So, I went back to college. But it takes time.
Years. Years I have to stay and pretend everything is ok.
Just learn one thing from me, never believe a man who tells you to stay home and he’ll take care of everything. ”
Trish turns to me. “Would our newcomer like to share?”
Everyone’s eyes turn. My skin feels hot.
“Uh… yeah. I guess.”
“It’s alright, dear. Just tell us what brought you here.”
I swallow. “I’m Kate. Last night was my ten-year anniversary. And the day I found out that my husband slept with a stripper at his bachelor party.”
The words hang there.
“I don’t know what to do. We have two kids. He apologized. But I don’t know if that’s enough. Can anyone here tell me what to do?”
Dan says, “It was ten years ago.”
Jackie cuts in. “So what? She’s just supposed to forgive and forget because he hid it well?”
Leena asks, “Do you want to forgive him?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I still love him. But the version of him I kept in my head, the perfect husband, that version’s gone. Every flaw I ignored is screaming at me now.”
Trish says, “Infidelity doesn’t have to be the end of a marriage. But once trust breaks, it’s hard, very hard to get it back. But it can be done. You need to ask yourself, can you trust this man again?”
I nod, but the truth is I don’t know. I sit back, listening to others speak, but their voices blur. I’m stuck in my own head, spiralling through love and anger and confusion.
I love him. But I can’t go back to pretending he’s perfect.
And I won’t pretend to be okay anymore.
When the meeting ends, I don’t rush out.
Most people linger, chatting in soft voices, offering each other advice or making loose plans to grab coffee next time.
I drift toward the back of the room and stand by the window, pretending to look out at the cars in the lot, but really I’m just trying to breathe.
The sunlight is too bright, and everything feels a little too sharp, like I’ve been peeled open and haven’t quite figured out how to close up again.
Trish walks over and stops beside me, holding a small notebook in her hand. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there with me, watching the parking lot fill and empty as people come and go.
Then, gently, she says, “If you want, I have contacts that are available in case you need any help. People from the meeting, therapists, divorce lawyers. We kind of have everything.”
I don’t answer right away. I stare out the window, watching a woman unlock her car, pause, then lean against the driver’s door taking a beat. My throat tightens.
Finally, I whisper, “Can I have the therapist contact?”
Trish nods and flips through her little notebook. Her handwriting is neat and slanted, the pages filled with names and numbers and short notes. She tears one off and hands it to me.
“Her name’s Claudia. She owns a practice and is local. Been doing this a long time. She’s blunt, but she’s kind. You won’t scare her.”
I take the paper like it’s something fragile. My hand closes around it before I can think too hard. “Thanks.”
“You don’t have to wait until you’re falling apart to call her,” Trish says. “Some people think therapy is a last resort, but it’s not. Sometimes it’s just someone to hold a flashlight while you figure out which direction you’re heading.”
I nod, throat too tight to speak. I don’t trust my voice not to break.
Trish doesn’t push. She just pats my shoulder once, warm and steady, then walks away.
I stand there a few more minutes before I finally make myself move. Outside, the sun feels softer, like the heat has cooled just a little. I slide into Quinn’s car and shut the door, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. The slip of paper is still in my palm.
Claudia. I repeat the name in my head until it feels less foreign. I tuck the note into my bag. Not the glove compartment. Not the cup holder. My bag. I want it close.
I don’t call her right away.
But I don’t throw the number away, either.