There isn’t a single time in the last five months that I’ve put my hands on my wife and she hasn’t recoiled with fear or an excuse. Son of a bitch. He has my wife in his arms. A content smile—one that should belong to me—covers his face as he holds her close. He presses his lips to her ear and whispers softly, before his eyes lift to meet mine. It’s in this moment I know exactly who is in the space between us.
