“Yes. And I love you too. I know it sounds impossible.”

I laughed bitterly. “You destroyed two families.”

“They’re gone,” he said, grief in his voice. “I just… couldn’t keep their pictures anymore.”

We drove home separately. I sat on the porch while he paced the driveway.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I still love you, Alice. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“You don’t.”

“But I need you. I can’t lose you too.”

His words made my stomach turn. Like I was some consolation prize.

“What about me, Jordan? Our kids?”

He sat close. “How do I fix this?”

“I don’t think you can.”

I thought of the fallout—our children devastated, the life we built in pieces.

“I need time,” I said.

“How much?”

“Maybe forever. Maybe until I can see you without picturing those photos.”

He agreed to sleep in the guest room. At the door he turned back.

“I know sorry isn’t enough. But I am sorry. More than you’ll ever know.”

Now the house feels foreign. Some days I think about forgiving him. Other days, I want to burn it all down myself.

Maybe love survives this kind of betrayal. Maybe it doesn’t.

I’m still deciding whether to be the woman who stays and rebuilds—or the one who finally puts herself first after 21 years of being someone’s second choice.