He walked into the kitchen, loosening his tie. He stopped when he saw my face.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, his brow furrowing with perfect, rehearsed concern.

I didn’t speak. I just slid the thick cream folder across the island.

He looked at it. Then he looked at me. He slowly reached out and flipped the cover open.

I watched his eyes scan the 1st page. It was a printed photograph of him and Sarah walking into a motel room.

I have never seen a grown man’s face lose color so incredibly fast. The arrogant posture collapsed. He suddenly looked small. Weak.

“I can explain,” he choked out, his hands starting to shake violently.

“Your suitcase is on the porch,” I said softly.

“Please. Let’s just talk about this.”

“Your termination letter is taped to the handle. My brother said to tell you that security has already boxed up your desk.”

He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. The realization of what he had lost crashed over him all at once. His wife, his job, his reputation, his money.

“Oh,” he whispered.

“Leave the house keys on the counter,” I commanded.

He placed them on the granite. They made a pathetic little clink.

He walked backward out of the kitchen, unable to take his eyes off me, as if expecting me to break down and beg him to stay.

I didn’t. I just watched him walk out the door.

The heavy oak door closed again. For the final time.

The broken pieces of the mugs are in the trash now. The sink is clean. The locks are changed.

I wiped the granite countertops until they shined. I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee in a plain glass mug. And for the 1st time in 3 years, I enjoyed the silence.