My husband, Michael, was always traveling for work. He was constantly on the move—hopping from one city to another, attending conferences and meetings. It was the nature of his job, or so I thought. But after months of growing suspicion, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. One night, while he was supposedly on a business trip, I decided to call his hotel room. I was expecting the usual—his tired voice answering the phone, the sound of the TV in the background—but instead, a woman picked up. My heart froze as she introduced herself as Sarah, his coworker. She seemed surprised and flustered when I asked why she was in my husband’s room. The conversation that followed was a blur of half-truths and excuses, but the damage was done. When Michael returned home, I confronted him with what I had discovered. At first, he tried to downplay it, claiming that they had been working late and she had just stopped by. But when I pressed him, the façade crumbled. He confessed to the affair, admitting that their business trips had become more about personal time together than actual work. The betrayal felt like a punch to the gut, the knowledge that he had chosen to spend his time with her instead of me—a wound that I knew would take a long time to heal.