No Apology Required

My husband Michael was back, or so he said, but our home was a stage for a hollow play, thick with things he refused to acknowledge. Months ago, I found a secret folder on his laptop: "Sanctuary." Inside, years of emails and poems to his graduate student, Olivia, called her his "kindred spirit," labeling our life together "mundane." I'd also found them at a restaurant. When I confronted them, Olivia dramatically faked an injury, and Michael's sycophant colleague violently shoved me, cracking my head against the wall. Michael, the man I'd helped build, rushed only to Olivia's side while I bled. He later spun it, calling me "melodramatic," and his family blamed me for his affair, demanding I apologize to the mistress. The audacity choked me. This wasn't merely betrayal; it was a complete dismantling of our history, casting me as the villain. Something inside me snapped, not with a bang, but with a cold, quiet click. I took the most damning emails from "Sanctuary"-where he belittled me and confessed his "true love" for her-and anonymously sent them to the university, igniting a war Michael never saw coming.