Then I drove to the store.

Hamilton & Cole was a small shop on Main Street. Velvet displays. Soft music. The kind of place that smells like money. I walked up to the counter and showed the clerk my husband’s photo on my phone.

She smiled instantly. “Oh, of course! He was wonderful.”

“Do you remember what he bought?”

“The solitaire! His fiancée picked it out herself.”

My stomach dropped.

“His fiancée?”

“Yes! Lovely woman. Blonde. They came in together. She was so happy.”

I have black hair. I have always had black hair.

I thanked her. Walked to my car. Sat in the parking lot for twenty minutes without moving.

Then I went home and packed every single thing Danny owned into black garbage bags. Shirts. Pants. Shoes. His stupid collection of golf magazines. Everything. I lined the bags up on the front porch like a wall.

When Danny pulled into the driveway at 5:30 PM, I was sitting on the porch steps holding the receipt.

His face went white.

“I can explain,” he started.

“Don’t.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“A diamond ring for your blonde fiancée isn’t what I think?”

He started crying. Actually crying. Danny never cried. Not at his father’s funeral. Not when our dog passed. But standing in our driveway surrounded by garbage bags full of his own clothes, he completely broke down.

“It was a mistake,” he choked out.

“$6,000 mistakes don’t happen by accident.”

He begged. Literally got on his knees on the concrete. I stepped over him and went inside.

I filed for divorce the next morning. It was finalized in five months. I kept the house. He moved to an apartment across town. The settlement was clean because I had the receipt as evidence and he didn’t fight it.

Everyone felt sorry for me. My family rallied. My mother brought casseroles. My father fixed things around the house. And my sister Katie? She was my rock. Called me every night. Drove forty minutes to bring me wine on bad days. Held me while I cried.