The lights in the hall went out, and on the screen behind me the first photograph appeared — our wedding, young and happy.

The guests smiled, someone sighed emotionally, but within seconds the image changed.

On the white wall, messages I knew all too well appeared in close-up: “She suspects nothing,” “You make me feel young,” “Tomorrow at the same place.”

A wave of whispers rolled through the hall. Daniel’s face slowly drained of color, and Sofia froze as if nailed to her chair.

Then photographs appeared — dates, timestamps, their embraces, too explicit to leave any doubt.

I did not raise my voice when I spoke again. I only said that forty years of trust are not erased from memory, but betrayal can cross them out with a single stroke.

I wanted him to feel at least a fraction of what I had felt while scrolling through his messages as he watered his tomatoes and hummed our song.

The hall grew cold. Daniel tried to say something, but the words fell apart. And I stood there calmly and, for the first time in many years, felt not pain, but freedom.