I spent the next three weeks trying to guess what he'd told her. I replayed every argument, every moment, every half-overheard conversation from the last two years. I begged his sister for a hint. She wouldn't give me one. "That's not mine to tell," she said, and hung up. I wrote letters I didn't send. I drafted texts I deleted. I stood outside his sister's house one night, in my car, watching the kitchen light glow yellow behind the curtains, and I tried to will myself to walk up and knock. I couldn't. Something inside me knew I wasn't ready for whatever conversation waited on the other side of that door. Day thirty, I got an email. Not a text — an email, from the account he uses for work. It was one line: "I'm seeing someone about the drinking. Please don't reach out until I'm ready." I read it forty times. And then, finally, for the first time since the fight — I felt something other than guilt. I felt angry.