I can still remember the exact moment when certainty turned into judgment. It was halfway through dinner at a small Italian restaurant on Maple Street—the kind with dim lighting, worn wooden tables, and the lingering scent of garlic and wine. I had just lifted my fork when something caught my eye. Across the room, in a quiet corner, sat my neighbor’s wife. Sarah. She wasn’t alone. A man sat beside her, close enough that their knees almost touched. His hand rested lightly over hers, and she laughed softly, leaning in as if the rest of the restaurant didn’t exist. It…
