After three years apart, I expected my husband’s first words to be something like, “I missed you.”

Instead, Daniel looked straight at me and said,

“Emily, I think we should separate.”

I was standing outside Terminal 4 with white lilies trembling in my hands.

For eleven years, I had loved that man.

For the last three, I had waited for him to come home from a medical research fellowship in Switzerland.

But Daniel wasn’t standing there alone.

Beside him was a beautiful woman in her twenties wearing an elegant cream coat.

She held the hands of two little boys.

Identical twins.

They looked about four.

And one of them had Daniel’s dark eyes and the exact same crooked smile.

My stomach turned.

“Who are they?”

Daniel sighed as though I had already become difficult.

“This is Vanessa.”

The woman offered me a cautious smile.

“And the boys are Noah and Lucas.”

I looked back at Daniel.

“You have children?”

His eyes darted around the airport.

“Emily, not here.”

I almost laughed.

Not here?

For three years, I had defended this man.

When my friends questioned why his fellowship seemed to keep extending, I made excuses for him.

When Daniel claimed his stipend was late, I transferred money.

I managed our house alone.

Paid the insurance.

Handled his mother’s medical appointments.

I had even refinanced our home when he said he needed financial breathing room overseas.

And now he had returned with another woman and two children.

Vanessa stepped closer to him.

Daniel placed his arm around her waist.

That simple movement hurt more than seeing the boys.

“Emily,” he said, “this marriage has been over for a long time. You’re the only one who refused to accept it.”

My fingers tightened around the flowers.