The sound of shattering ceramic was deafening. It echoed off the subway tile backsplash. Shards exploded across the stainless steel, bouncing against the faucet.

“What did you just do?” she stammered, jumping backward off her stool. Her crying stopped instantly.

The color drained from her face. She looked at the sink, then at me, her eyes wide with sudden panic.

“Get out,” I said quietly.

“Please, you have to understand. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Get. Out.”

I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise my voice above a whisper. That was what terrified her.

She scrambled for her purse. The designer leather tote Mark had supposedly helped her husband pick out for her anniversary. She practically ran toward the front door, her heels clicking frantically on the hardwood.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her.

I was alone. The house was dead quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator.

I looked at the broken ceramic in the sink. The coffee was slowly draining away, staining the white porcelain brown.

She thought that was the end of it. She thought her confession had cleared her conscience. She wanted to be the brave one who finally told the truth.

But she didn’t know everything.

She didn’t know that I hadn’t been oblivious for 3 years. She didn’t know that 3 weeks ago, while Mark was in the shower, I had taken his car to get the oil changed.

And she didn’t know that when I adjusted the passenger seat, I found a hidden tablet jammed underneath the upholstery.

It wasn’t locked. He was too arrogant to lock it.

I had spent 3 weeks reading every single message. I had seen the photos. The hotel bookings. The digital receipts for the jewelry he bought her with money siphoned from our joint savings account.

I endured 3 weeks of silent agony.

Not when we celebrated our 20th anniversary, and he gave me a cheap card while wearing the watch she bought him.