I would wake up in a panic, soaked in my own sweat, gasping for air.
Every night, for months on end, I dreamt of her, the other woman, with my husband.
It felt like my punishment for not being the perfect wife he wanted.
My imagination and fear filled in any missing details, to the point where nothing could hurt me more.
I dreamt that he was still with her, and I was the only moron left on the planet not to know. I dreamt of how it would have felt to punch him in the face when he told me about the affair, instead of stuffing my anger deep down inside, haunting me in the darkest hours of night.
The saddest part is that even awake, I was living my nightmare.
Day in, day out. No reprieve, except the idea that I could eventually leave it all behind.