I thought a night out at my husband David’s boss’s mansion would be a rare chance to reconnect.

The house was breathtaking — chandeliers, manicured gardens, the works.

But while borrowing David’s phone to check on our son, I noticed it was already connected to the Wi-Fi: “Laura’s Mansion.” David had just told me he’d never been there before.

The rest of the evening, I couldn’t shake the unease. When his boss’s husband joked about being away in Tokyo all next week, and David later mentioned working late, the puzzle pieces started fitting together — and not in a good way.

The next day, David lied about being at the office. Something in me snapped.

I drove straight to Laura’s mansion — and found him hiding in her closet.

“Penelope, I can explain,” he stammered, guilt all over his face.

“There’s nothing left to explain,” I said.

And just like that, I walked out.

The days that followed were brutal, but I filed for divorce and started therapy.

Through tears and late nights, I focused on my son.

One evening, as I tucked him in, he whispered, “Mommy, are you okay?”

I smiled through the ache.

“Yes, darling. We’re going to be just fine.” And I knew, finally, that we would.