I waited under a lamplight that smelled of roses, my napkin folded in my lap. When they came, Mara first, in that practiced, breezy way that made people assume nothing troubled her. She smiled like we’d been at a picnic. My husband arrived later, coat uneven, eyes like a child caught with honey.

They sat. I put my phone screen between us, photos of their messages visible like a altar. Room slowed; someone clinked a glass. Mara’s smile faltered, then sharpened to amusement. “So,” she said, “what do you want?” I told them the truth: to hear directly and honestly, without theatrics, because I would not let my life be decided by gossip.

My husband tried words—apologies, excuses—and Mara interrupted with practiced contempt, calling me dramatic in a whisper loud enough for our nearest neighbor. I pressed play on a voice note I had saved: a hesitant apology from him the night before, recorded when he thought I had left the house. His voice broke. His hand reached for mine; I removed it.

Around us people leaned in, eyes bright with anticipation, like diners watching a play. I surprised myself. I laughed, a short brittle sound, and said, “Do you want applause?” No one applauded. I stood up.

“I won’t be begged for pity,” I said. “I won’t be the spectacle that stitches your secrets into gossip. Decide now: be honest to our children, or let me be the one to tell them on my terms.” Mara opened her mouth, then closed it. My husband looked smaller than he had at twenty.

I left before they could choose. Outside the night smelled of wet pavement and possibility. I drove without a plan and felt, for the first time in days, the quiet gravity of making my own decisions and breathing.