I was 35, six years into what I thought was a happy marriage. Michael, my husband, worked long hours at a consulting firm, and I proudly supported his success. When an email invitation to his company’s Black & Gold Gala appeared, I felt thrilled—finally, a glimpse into his world.
But when I told him I wanted to go, his sudden defensiveness stung. “It’s boring, Claire. You’d hate it,” he insisted. I stayed quiet, but the unease lingered.
On the night of the event, something in me refused to stay home. I dressed in black and gold and went to the hotel, heart pounding. At the desk, the clerk said softly, “He’s already checked in—with his wife.”
Through the ballroom glass, I saw him—laughing, arm around another woman in a shimmering gold dress.
Hours later, he returned, fired and desperate. His lie had unraveled before everyone. I pointed to his packed bags and said, “You can come in—just to take your things.”
“Karma,” I realized, “doesn’t need planning. It just shows up.”
