My name is Clara Jensen. I’m thirty-four, and a year ago, I would’ve laughed if anyone told me my marriage would end before I even understood it was already over.
But at 2:47 a.m. on a Tuesday, laughter disappeared from me completely.
The house felt unnervingly silent. I had fallen asleep on the couch, the TV muted, its pale glow flickering across the room. When my phone buzzed, I reached for it without urgency, assuming it was nothing—maybe Ethan checking in from his work trip in Vegas.
Instead, my breath caught.
The first thing that appeared was a photo.
Ethan—my husband of six years—standing beneath the neon lights of a Vegas wedding chapel.
Beside him stood Rebecca, his coworker.
They were holding marriage certificates.
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