If I show it to him it might finish whatever fragile picture of us he’s still clinging to—or it could splinter him into something I’ll never recognize. The file I’d lifted from her laptop was a spreadsheet, ugly with numbers and dates, but one column had his initials next to several transfers. There were emails too, coy and familiar, that suggested he had been smoothing things over for months. I sat at the kitchen table and felt my world pivot.
I could take it straight to the detectives, hand it to the lawyer the precinct recommended, let the process be clinical and impartial. Or I could present it to him at home, watch his face, maybe hear the truth between his defenses. I imagined both and could not bear either perfectly.
My children deserve clarity. My home did not. The house was now a tribunal of silence; his absence was a loud one. I remembered why I married him: the small daily mercies, the way he made coffee with too much cinnamon, the winter he held my hand in the ER. I remembered the moment my trust hardened into habit. But memory does not count checks or rebuild bank accounts.
Finally I made a pragmatic choice. I copied the files twice—encrypted to a drive and uploaded to a secure email to a lawyer. I set an appointment with the detective for first thing in the morning and left a respectful voicemail for my husband asking to meet at the bank with a mediator. If he chose silence, so be it; I would let the law speak. I packed a small bag, locked the door, and felt a fierce relief as I walked to the car.
Every step felt like a decision; they were mine.
