I woke up to a message that turned my stomach.

“Your husband is in my house,” the text read. No name, no greeting.

I stared at it for a full minute. My hands started shaking.

I called his phone. Switched off.

I threw on a wrapper and rushed out of the house. My neighbor Mama Chika asked where I was going. I waved her off.

The address in the text led me to a small compound on the other side of town. My heart raced with every step.

I knocked once. A young girl opened the door. She looked barely twenty.

“Good evening. I’m looking for Chike,” I said, my voice trembling.

Her eyes widened. She turned and called, “Babe, someone is here for you.”

Chike walked in, wearing only a towel. My husband.

For a moment we locked eyes. He froze. The towel nearly slipped.

“You switched off your phone,” I said. My voice was cold.

He stammered. “I… I was… it’s not what you think.”

The girl folded her arms. “She has the right to know,” she said.

I stepped into the room. Empty plates of food sat on the table. His wristwatch lay on the chair.

“You left our daughter at home,” I said. “You told me you were working late.”

He rubbed his forehead. “It’s a mistake. Please, let’s talk at home.”

I turned to the girl. “How long?”

She lifted her chin. “Six months. He said he was single.”

Something inside me snapped. I pulled off my wedding ring and placed it on the table.

“Stay with him,” I said. “He belongs here, not in my house.”

I walked out without looking back.

That night I slept in my sister’s room. My phone buzzed non-stop. I didn’t pick.

At dawn, I blocked his number. I blocked the girl’s too.

For the first time in years, I felt light.