While digging through a junk drawer, my hand closed around something cold and metallic—a tarnished key with a faded tag that simply read: Sarah. My heart sank. In six years together, he’d never mentioned anyone named Sarah. I walked into the living room, the key still cold in my palm. He was watching TV, bathed in blue light.

“Who is Sarah?” I asked.

He froze. The color drained from his face. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. But I pushed. That’s when he broke: “She’s my girlfriend.”

Then his phone buzzed. Her smiling face lit up the screen: “Can’t wait for tonight! ❤️”

My stomach turned. He tried to grab the phone. I was faster.

“You’ve been lying for how long?” I demanded. “Was it before we married?”

He stammered excuses, but I wasn’t listening.

“Get your things,” I said. “You’re not staying here tonight.”

His jaw dropped. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“To her. To a hotel. I don’t care.”

He hesitated, then disappeared into the bedroom.

I stood in the flickering TV light, holding the key and the truth that broke everything.

Love doesn’t leave keys in junk drawers. Lies do.