When my husband kissed me goodbye that Saturday morning, he smelled like fresh cologne. Not his usual faded aftershave, but the expensive one he only wore on anniversaries. I raised an eyebrow, but he smiled and said, “Early tee time. Don’t wait up for lunch.” He grabbed his clubs and left, whistling.
It sounded normal enough, except he hadn’t touched those clubs in months.
I tried to ignore the gnawing feeling in my chest. I busied myself with laundry, scrubbing the kitchen, scrolling mindlessly on my phone. And then I saw it—the post. A selfie of him, uploaded to his story for the whole world to see. Not on the golf course. Not with his buddies. But sitting at an outdoor café, sunlight on his face… and her reflection in his sunglasses.
Her. The coworker I had already suspected. The one who laughed too loudly at his jokes, who lingered too close in every group photo. The woman he swore I was being paranoid about.
My heart thudded in my ears. I replayed the story over and over, zooming in until the pixels blurred. The reflection was clear enough—her hair, her smile, her phone lifted for a picture of them together. He hadn’t even realized he’d given himself away.
I called him immediately. “How’s golf?” I asked, my voice steady though my hands shook.
There was a pause. Then a forced laugh. “Great. Just finished nine holes.”
“Oh?” I said. “Funny, because I just saw your story. And unless the golf course now serves lattes with heart-shaped foam, you’re not where you said you’d be.”
Silence. Heavy, damning silence.
Finally, he sighed. “It’s not what you think.”
“It’s exactly what I think,” I snapped. “You’re with her.”
“She’s just a friend.” His voice was desperate now, scrambling for footing. “We grabbed coffee. That’s all.”
I wanted to scream, to throw the phone across the room, to drive straight to that café and drag him home. Instead, I whispered, “Then why lie? Why not just tell me?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The lie was enough.
That night, he came home with flowers. Cheap ones from the gas station, shoved into my hands like a peace offering. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
But every time I looked at him, all I could see was her reflection staring back at me from his sunglasses. Proof that he could smile at me in the morning and sit with her hours later, pretending golf was the only game he was playing.
Final Thought
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t scream. Sometimes it slips through in the smallest details—like a reflection in sunglasses, a lie too flimsy to hold. I don’t know if I’ll ever trust him again, but I do know this: the truth has a way of revealing itself, even when people try to hide it behind a smile.
