Bitterly, she remembered how she had defended him then. “You’re imagining things,” she told herself. “People travel. Work requires it.” The justifications sounded mature. Now they sounded naive. The envelope was solidifying a narrative she could no longer undo or soften, no matter how she wanted to.
She prepared to confront him, tightening her resolve. Between the mail and the hotel, she believed she understood the truth. There was comfort in certainty, even painful certainty. It gave shape to her fear, allowing anger to replace confusion, and action to replace waiting.