I froze when I tuned into the local radio livestream. A woman requested a special love song for my husband, dedicating it to their first anniversary. A week later, I called the same station, but for a reason my husband could never have imagined.
It was one of those nights where everything felt heavy. The rain poured as I drove home, seeking comfort in a local DJ’s goofy banter. Suddenly, a caller named Jessie said, “This one goes out to the most amazing man I’ve ever met, my Ori-bear… Mr. Lamber.” My heart stopped. Oric was my husband’s name.
I pulled over, trembling. The song, the name, it all clicked. Memories of Oric’s late nights, missed dinners, and unfamiliar perfume surfaced. My phone buzzed: “Sorry, hon! I’ll be late tonight. Important work! XOXO.”
I confronted Oric the next morning. He fumbled, trying to lie. I found a brunette hair on his shirt; I’m blonde. “Care to explain?” I asked. His weak excuses only confirmed my suspicions.
Eventually, Oric admitted his affair. Devastated, I took off my wedding ring and left him, realizing our marriage was over.
