I spent those Thursday evenings folding laundry. I spent them helping Sarah’s teenage daughter with her math homework, because Sarah was busy finding her center.

She wasn’t finding her center. She was finding my husband.

“It just happened,” she repeated, her voice cracking.

3 years. 1,000 days. Every Thursday.

I looked at her sitting at my granite island. Really looked at her.

My mind started running backward. Snapping puzzle pieces into place with violent speed.

The way she always bought him his favorite obscure brand of scotch for his birthday.

The way she laughed at his terrible jokes just 1 second too early, like they shared a secret frequency.

The time I found a strand of blonde hair on his passenger seat and he casually blamed it on a female client.

The fact that her perfume, a very specific jasmine scent I had bought her for Christmas, somehow always lingered in our hallway on Friday mornings.

“Say something,” Sarah begged. 1 tear rolled down her perfectly applied makeup.

My body felt incredibly strange. Something behind my ribs folded in on itself. My vision went white at the edges.

I didn’t feel angry. I didn’t feel sad. I felt entirely, terrifyingly hollow.

My legs died under me, but I didn’t fall. I just sat perfectly still. The silence in the kitchen stretched out, thick and heavy.

I looked down at the coffee mug in her trembling hands. The chipped ceramic. The faded painted letters. BEST FRIENDS FOREVER.

Something older and steadier rose up inside me. It was cold. It felt like ice water in my veins.

I stood up. The wooden stool scraped loudly against the tile floor.

I reached out and gently took the mug from her hands. My hands weren’t shaking. They were perfectly steady.

Then I picked up my own mug.

I walked calmly to the porcelain farmhouse sink. I raised my hands. I held the 2 mugs over the basin.

And I let them drop.