Just a Kiss? Time for Divorce

My husband's first love posted a video on her social media.

In the video, the two of them were passing a playing card with their lips. When the card fell, their lips met in a kiss. They didn't stop—lost in the moment, they kissed passionately for an entire minute.

Her caption read: [Still the same clumsy piggy! PS: Steve's skills are as good as ever!]

I quietly liked the post and left a comment: [Congrats.]

The next second, my husband called, yelling at me furiously, "No other woman is as dramatic as you! I was just playing a game with Lanie. Why are you acting crazy again?"

It was then that I realized seven years of love meant nothing. It was time for me to leave.

I rubbed my stomach, still sore from the miscarriage, and thought, 'I'm sorry, little one. You came at the wrong time.'

Swallowing both physical and emotional pain, I replayed Melanie Jacobson's video.

Her flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and overflowing affection filled the screen. Below, comments were already flooding in.

[I was there! I swear, Steven and Melanie were full-on French kissing!]

[Wow! Steven's got moves. No wonder she looks so dazed. Did you see Lanie's face?]

[Still stands: women outside smell sweeter than the wife at home!]

The video ended as they finally pulled apart, after what felt like forever.

More teasing comments piled up, and Melanie selectively replied to a few.

Melanie: [Come on, guys, don't start rumors! Steve and I are just bros—good pals!]

Melanie: [Keep saying things like that, and Roly-Poly might get mad, lol!]

The "Roly-Poly" she referred to? That would be me, Anya Rouse.

When I was a kid, I had to take steroids for a medical condition, which pushed my weight up to 120 pounds.

These days, I weighed just 90 pounds, even slimmer than Melanie herself. Yet, she still clung to that nickname, especially when Steven Cobham was around.

My chest tightened, as if a rock was pressing down on it.

Thus, this was why Steven dropped a multimillion-dollar deal today to be a groomsman at an ex-classmate's wedding.

I had assumed it was brotherhood that pulled him there—but it turned out his first love, Melanie, was the bridesmaid.

How foolish I had been.

I knew it was time to end this relationship.

…

It was late when Steven stumbled home, reeking of alcohol. Bright red lipstick smudged his pristine white shirt.

He called my name a few times, but I stayed in bed, unmoving.

Drunkenly, he buried his head into my chest, coaxing, "Honey, I'm sorry. It was just a game with Lanie. I was the groomsman, she was the bridesmaid. I didn't have a choice."

Really? No choice? Because the look in his eyes during that kiss—the delight, the pride—was impossible to miss.

When I didn't respond, he rubbed his head against my chest, trying to charm me. "Honey, forgive me, okay?"

In the past, his puppy-dog act would have melted my anger instantly. Now,