After Husband's Affair

The day before returning from a business trip, I noticed a new entry on my weight-tracking app, showing someone 7 pounds lighter than me. I immediately changed my flight to come home early.

The snack cupboard was half empty, and the fridge was devoid of my usual sodas, replaced instead with strawberry-flavored milk, which I couldn't stand. On the coffee table sat several packs of strawberry-flavored cookies, something neither my husband nor I ever ate.

I called my husband directly: "Has someone been here recently?"

After a month away, it felt like someone else had moved into our home. His hesitation was noticeable: "Um...Vincenzo brought his girlfriend over for a bit yesterday. Why?"

I softly replied, "Just curious," and hung up. Then I quickly checked Vincenzo's girlfriend’s Instagram, and her latest post was, “Help! Who else gets a bad allergic reaction to strawberries? Just the smell makes me sick!”

Nikolas’s tone during the call made my intuition scream that he was cheating, yet I couldn’t believe our decade-long relationship was crumbling like this. As I debated whether to confront him, I noticed that Vincenzo's girlfriend's post about strawberries had vanished. Refreshing several times confirmed it had been deleted.

Then a message from Vincenzo appeared: "Hey, Natalia, did my girlfriend mess with your stuff yesterday? Nikolas called saying you seemed upset. Sorry about that, don’t take it to heart."

His denial was transparent; I could only reply: "Sure." Then, I contacted my friend Laney, a private investigator: "Keep an eye on Nikolas for me."

After taking care of that, I threw out everything strawberry-flavored in the house. When Nikolas returned that evening with roses, I saw a pink bracelet on his wrist, adorned with a small strawberry charm.

I stared at the charm and asked, smiling, "Where did you get that?"

As he put the flowers in a vase, he touched the bracelet, his smile faltering: "Some college students were passing them out for a project. If you like it, you can have it." He pretended to take it off, fingers lingering, waiting for me to say I didn’t want it.

But I just watched his performance silently, until he awkwardly stopped, saying, “Oh right, I think Anika, Vincenzo’s niece, likes these kinds of things. I’ll save it for her.”

He slipped the bracelet into his pocket and tried to hug me: “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back early?”

“Baby,” he whispered in my ear, “I’ve been thinking about you every day this month.” Yet, on his collar was a faint, unmistakable scent of strawberries, so I pushed him away sharply.

Looking unsure, he asked what was wrong. I simply said, “I caught a cold.”

Nikolas knew I wasn’t feeling well when I got sick, but if he paid closer attention, he’d notice I showed no symptoms of a cold. Instead, he offered token concern and sighed in relief: “Oh, well, get some rest. I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.”

Sitting on the bed, listening to the water running in the bathroom, his phone lit up, showing a message from an account with a strawberry cartoon avatar: “Did you kiss her, Uncle?”

My heart pounded, fingers trembling as I entered his password. After several failed attempts, I remembered his father’s birthday and unlocked it.

The latest message in their conversation was: “If you touch her, I’ll find another uncle to play with.” Above it, Nikolas had sent: “She came home early, don’t contact me for a few days, okay?”

I opened the strawberry icon’s profile. No full-face photos, just boasts: amusement park cotton candy, movie theater popcorn, and luxury shopping bags. Each picture showed intertwined hands, and I recognized Nikolas’s signet ring—the one I’d given him.

“Day 88 with Uncle.”

“Celebrating our first strawberry ice cream together.”

“Congrats to Uncle for officially calling me baby, today’s reward is a kiss~”

In hidden corners of my awareness, Nikolas indulged another girl with childish, sweet nicknames. The latest post was a selfie with a diamond ring, captioned: “Uncle says we’ll marry after graduation—isn’t it too soon?”

The diamond gleamed brilliantly, romantic under the sunlight. Suddenly, I remembered last month when one of Nikolas’s colleagues whispered to me, “Waylon spent two million at an auction on a blue diamond—it must be for your anniversary surprise!”

I waited expectantly for him to reveal the diamond, realizing only now that the stone was never meant for me.

The phone buzzed again with strawberry’s flirtatious messages and emojis. But I closed it, placing it back where it belonged.

When Nikolas emerged from the bathroom, drying his hair, I was reminded of our early days in a cramped apartment right after graduation. On impulse, I asked, “Nikolas, will you ever love someone else?”

We had weathered life’s poorest, toughest times together, like driftwood in a raging river, supporting and tangling with each other to get here.

Looking into his eyes, I asked slowly, “Will you betray me?”

Twenty-two-year-old Nikolas would have hugged me, chin resting atop my head, saying, “Not unless I’m dead.”

But thirty-two-year-old Nikolas fidgeted with his towel, voice muffled, “Don’t think too much—get some sleep.” He didn’t meet my gaze once.

I sat awake all night, unable to pinpoint where it went wrong. We’d survived the seven-year itch, certain we were each other’s one true love for life. Yet here we were.

The only thing I now understood was that once something rots, it can never be restored. This was Nikolas’s knife, driven deep into my heart.

The following morning, beside the breakfast Nikolas left was a glass of peach soda. I stared at the condensation, recalling a photo from the strawberry profile: “Uncle’s special peach fizz~”

I’m allergic to peaches. My stomach churned violently. Clutching the toilet, I vomited until I was dizzy.

Nikolas had left early, and as I sat in the room, reviewing the investigation report Laney sent, chills ran through me.

I’d imagined strawberry was some executive’s daughter—young, pretty, and perhaps interning at Nikolas’s company, maybe even highly capable.

But what I never considered was that strawberry was an 18-year-old student.

“Has Nikolas lost his mind?” Laney’s voice was edged with fury. “She looks barely legal!”

The girl in the photos wore twin braids and a school uniform, flashing peace signs at the camera. I flipped to the last page of the report—born in 2003, she was fifteen years younger than Nikolas.

Even her mother was only five years older than him.

A fresh wave of nausea overcame me, and I felt my entire body turn cold.