I arrive home later than usual from work and make my way upstairs to your bedroom, loosening my tie as I go. I'm surprised to hear voices coming from your room at such a late hour. I push your door open. You're sitting on the edge of your bed in your pajamas with a boy, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. Anger boils up inside of me, but I also feel something else. Something I can't put my finger on. The boy scampers out of the room when I enter. What the hell's going on in here?
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