Thirty-one.
Marketing consultant.
She had done branding work for Scott’s business and apparently for his ego. She appeared in hotel receipts, restaurant charges, Venmo descriptions, and one photograph Scott accidentally synced to an old shared tablet Ellie used for drawing.
I saw the photo before Ellie did.
That still feels like mercy.
In it, Amanda stood on a balcony wearing Scott’s white shirt, holding a glass of champagne, laughing toward the camera.
The date stamp was the night of Ben’s eighth-grade winter concert.
Scott had missed it because of an emergency client meeting in Chicago.
Ben had pretended not to care.
I had recorded the whole concert on my phone and sent it to Scott afterward.
He had replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
I sat on the edge of my bed looking at that photo until the room blurred.
Not because he had cheated.
By then, the affair itself felt almost predictable.
What gutted me was the economy of his attention.
A thumbs-up for his son.
Champagne for her.
I printed the photo and placed it in the folder.
Evidence first.
Breakdown later.
Scott’s public confidence began to crack around week five.
The Instagram posts slowed.
The expensive dinners disappeared.
His brother stopped making eye contact with me at school events.
One afternoon, Amanda sent me a message.
I did not recognize the number.
Dana, I think we should talk woman to woman.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I sent it to Kathleen.
She replied in all caps.
DO NOT RESPOND.
So I did not.
Amanda called next.
Then emailed.
Then, finally, showed up at my office.
I owned a small event-planning business in Fishers. Not glamorous. Mostly corporate luncheons, school fundraisers, retirement parties, charity auctions. Scott had always called it “your little party thing,” despite borrowing money from it twice in lean months and using my vendor contacts when his business needed clients.
Amanda walked in wearing a camel coat and nervous perfume.
She looked less villainous than I wanted her to.
That was inconvenient.
Villains should have the decency to look like villains.
“Dana,” she said, “I know you must hate me.”
I looked at my assistant, who had frozen behind the reception desk.
“Can I help you?”
Amanda’s mouth trembled.
“Scott told me you were separated.”
“We were not.”
Her face went pale.
“He said you both had agreed the marriage was over.”
“Did he also tell you he was spending our children’s college money?”
She looked like I had slapped her.
That answer told me more than words.
“Please leave,” I said.
“I have emails,” she blurted.
I went still.
“What?”
Her eyes filled.
“He told me some things. About moving money. About making sure you didn’t get half. I thought he was just angry. I didn’t know—”
I lifted one hand.
“Stop talking.”
She blinked.
“If you have documents, you can send them to my attorney.”
“I don’t want to get involved.”
“You already are.”
She left ten minutes later, shaken, carrying Kathleen’s email address written on a sticky note.
Three days after that, Kathleen called.
Amanda had forwarded emails.
Not all.
Enough.
One sentence from Scott stood out so clearly I read it six times before my body understood it.
If I keep Dana scared about custody, she’ll sign anything. She doesn’t have the stomach for a fight.
There it was.
Not implied.
Not interpreted.
Written.
Saved.
Forwarded by the woman he had also lied to.
I printed that email and put it in the folder.
Then I went into the downstairs bathroom, turned on the fan so the kids would not hear, and sobbed into a hand towel until my throat hurt.
When I finished, I washed my face, made grilled cheese, and helped Ellie study for a science quiz.
That was how the war went.
Collapse.
Wash your face.
Feed children.
Continue.
The kids were pulled into it despite every effort I made.
Divorce likes to claim it can be adult-only if people behave well.
That is a lie.
Children live in the house where the air changes.
Ben got quieter.
His grades slipped in algebra.