My Wife Told Me: “If You’re Jealous — Go Home.” That Night I Really Did Leave, But Not Home…

My Wife Told Me: “If You’re Jealous — Go Home.” That Night I Really Did Leave, But Not Home…
I stood in the middle of our kitchen, the quiet hum of the refrigerator the only witness to whatever the hell had just happened in my house. Two plates. Two glasses. One bottle emptied. One lipstick abandoned.

Crimson red.

I picked it up, turning it between my fingers like an object from a crime scene. It wasn’t Meira’s. She hated red lipstick—said it was "too loud, too desperate, too obvious." Funny how the things people say become ironic once you realize they’re living a double life.

I set the lipstick on the table and looked around the room that I had remodeled myself—custom cabinets, hand-stained oak flooring, the quartz countertops Meira insisted on even though they blew our budget. This kitchen was supposed to be our sanctuary. Now it felt like a stage where I’d just missed the show.

The worst part wasn’t the wine glasses. It wasn’t even the lipstick.

It was the smell.

A faint trace of perfume lingered in the air—warm, floral, expensive. Not Meira’s. Meira liked clean scents, simple ones. Whoever had been here had left her fragrance behind like a calling card.

I walked to the sink and touched the rim of the crimson-marked glass. The print was perfect, like a kiss frozen in time. And I realized with a cold clarity that this wasn’t an accident. People don’t leave lipstick behind. They take it with them. They reapply it. They guard it. This had been left intentionally, almost proudly.

A declaration.

A warning.

Or maybe a taunt.

The clock on the stove read 6:15 PM. Meira wouldn’t be home for another two hours if her “late meeting” story held. Which gave me time—time to think, time to breathe, time to replay every inconsistency from the last six months.

The sudden gym membership.
The new clothes “on sale.”
The way she’d started guarding her phone like it was carrying state secrets.

I opened the dishwasher. The plates were rinsed but not washed—something Meira never did. She was obsessive about cleaning, about order. But someone else had been here, and they weren't familiar with our routines.


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