After I ch.eated, my husband never laid a hand on me again. For eighteen years, we coexisted like strangers under the same roof— until a routine medical checkup after retirement, when the doctor’s words shattered me right there in the office.
After I betrayed him, my husband never touched me again. Not in anger. Not in longing. Not even by accident. For eighteen years, we lived in the same house like careful strangers—two polite ghosts sharing a mortgage. We passed each other in hallways with measured courtesy, spoke only when necessary, and performed marriage in…
