I sat in my freezing car, unable to breathe. The realization hit me like a physical blow. The dead bedroom, the excuses, the exhaustion—it was never a medical issue. He wasn’t tired. He just wasn’t tired of her.

And in my desperate, pathetic attempt to save our marriage, I had literally drugged my husband with performance enhancers just to send him directly into the arms of his mistress.

I didn’t bang on the door. I didn’t scream or make a scene. I just sat there as the tears finally spilled over, realizing that the marriage I was fighting so hard to save had actually died years ago. I drove home to an empty house, packed a bag, and called a lawyer. I poured the rest of the coffee down the drain, right along with the last twelve years of my life.