The argument had started the moment Thaddeus came home.

Now, hours later, the digital clock on your bedside table glowed 11:03 p.m., painting the dark bedroom in red. Down the hall, your five-year-old son slept peacefully, completely unaware of the storm brewing between his parents.

You folded your arms tightly across your chest, trying to keep your voice low despite the fury burning inside you.

“I saw you, Thaddeus.”

He exhaled sharply. “And I already explained what happened.”

“Explained?” you whispered bitterly. “You call having your secretary practically sitting in your lap an explanation?”

Earlier that afternoon, you had decided to surprise your husband by bringing lunch to his office. Six years of marriage, countless late nights at work, and you still wanted to do little things for him. But the moment you had opened the door to his office, your stomach had dropped.

His secretary—his secretary of three years—had been sitting far too close to him, laughing at something on his computer. The sight had ignited something ugly inside you.

You had walked out before either of them could say a word.

And now, hours later, the hurt had only grown.

“For the hundredth time,” Thaddeus muttered, lowering his voice as he glanced toward the hallway, “she was showing me the quarterly reports.”

“On your lap?”

“She tripped.”

You laughed humorlessly. “That’s the excuse you’re going with?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am exhausted, and you’re not listening to me.”

“No,” you snapped, tears threatening to spill, “I’m finally listening to my instincts.”

Without another word, you turned and marched upstairs.

Behind you, Thaddeus released a frustrated sigh before following after you.

“Where are you going?”

You ignored him and headed straight for Matthew’s room.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the small figure curled beneath dinosaur-patterned blankets. Your heart ached as you sat on the edge of the bed and gently brushed his hair back.

“Get up, Matthew. We’re leaving, my love.”

The little boy stirred, yawning as he rubbed his sleepy eyes.

“Mama?” he mumbled. “Where are we going?”

“Are you serious, {{user}}?” Thaddeus whispered sharply from the doorway. He stepped inside, keeping his voice down. “Go back to sleep, Matthew.”

“I’m not staying any longer with a scumbag,” you hissed, clutching your son a little tighter.

“For God’s sake, {{user}}, I told you—you got the wrong idea.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking equally angry and exhausted.

Matthew blinked between the two of you, confusion slowly replacing his sleepiness.

“Daddy?” he asked quietly.

The single word seemed to freeze the room.

Thaddeus knelt beside the bed, forcing himself to soften his expression.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently. “Everything’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” you shot back.

Matthew’s lower lip trembled. “Did I do something bad?”

The question hit both of you like a punch.

Immediately, you shook your head. “No, sweetheart. Never.”

Thaddeus looked away, guilt flashing across his face. He sat beside Matthew and rubbed his small back.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The room fell silent except for the quiet hum of the air conditioner.

Then Matthew, still half asleep, reached out and grabbed both your hand and Thaddeus’s.

“Can we talk tomorrow?” he whispered. “I’m tired.”