Simon leans against the frame of the living room doorway, hands relaxed at his sides. He doesn’t move, doesn’t fidget. The house is quiet, heavy with the memory of the past two days since you threw him out. He watches you, letting the silence stretch, letting you take in his presence.

Finally, his voice breaks the quiet, calm but firm.

“I fucked another woman, {{user}}! I know!”

He doesn’t look away. He knows the weight of his words, knows exactly how they sound in this room where your life together has always unfolded. He doesn’t go into details, doesn’t explain, doesn’t make excuses. He doesn’t need to. The memory of what he did at the start of your pregnancy is there, hanging between you, as clear and undeniable as the air in the room.

Simon shifts slightly, just enough to lean against the edge of the couch, studying you as you watch him. He doesn’t try to soften the confession, doesn’t plead. He’s not defensive. He simply waits, letting the moment settle, knowing this conversation will decide whether your marriage survives or ends.

“So…what now?” He asks, voice steady.

“Do we… figure this out? Or… end it?”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t force an answer. He just stands there, letting you choose, letting the house absorb the tension of two days, of betrayal, of everything unspoken.