I wanted to scream. Without me, he wouldn’t
have his wealth. He wouldn’t have his
beautiful children. He wouldn’t have the
freedom to pursue his affair without a care in
the world.
But he had the louder voice. He made the
rules.
I couldn’t fight him, so I swallowed my pride.
I endured it for over two years, until their
honeymoon phase fizzled out. The big fights
came every few days, the small ones every
day.
I was waiting for my moment. I would make
him pay for everything.
3
Mark came home on the third night. He
played with the kids for a bit, then retreated
to his study to “work.”
I made him a cup of green tea. As I opened the study door, I heard him on the phone.
“I’m not sleeping with her. I came straight to you after I left, didn’t I? You crazy little thing,
you wear me out.”
Ugh. Fine by me. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten–foot pole.
Fighting back the nausea, I placed the tea on his desk. “Almost forty years old, Mark. You should take care of yourself.”
He looked up, surprised. Then, back to the
phone, his voice dripping with fake affection.
“Lock the door, silly girl.”
For a moment, I’m back in the early days of
our marriage. He used to call me silly girl. He
said I was too pure, too kind for the cutthroat
world of business. He wanted to protect me.
I believed him then. I thought he meant it.
Now, he’s still saying those words, but they’re
not for me.
He was “protecting” me by causing me the
greatest pain of my life.
“As long as you’re a good girl, no one can take your place.” He doesn’t mention divorce anymore. It’s a condescending offer of…
<
I lower my eyes, feigning gratitude. “Honey,
could you try to come home three nights a
week? The kids ask about you constantly. I’m
running out of excuses.”
This is phase two of my plan. They’ve been
together for over two years, over 700 nights.
I’m betting his infatuation is waning. I need
him home. I can’t enact my plan if he’s never
here.
Tiffany sends me another video of her and Mark. I reply immediately. “Thank you for your
hard work.
“He doesn’t love you anymore. What’s the
point?”
I text back, “Love is a luxury I can’t afford. I
く
“You’ll be gone soon enough.” She sounds
angry.
“Please, Tiffany,” I type. “Let me stay. Let me
take care of the kids. It’ll be one less thing for
you to worry about.”
I can’t compete with her, not in age or looks.
I’ll play the meek, submissive wife. I’ll bide my
time.
A 26–year–old girl, brazenly breaking up a
family, taunting the wife. I’m betting she
doesn’t come from a good home either. I’ve
already hired a private investigator to look
into her background, her past relationships.
When you stop hoping for a man to change, when you focus on your children, your
parents, and yourself, your heart becomes
L
For the past two years, I’ve been taking Tae
Kwon Do classes. Most women in my
situation would take yoga, or learn to model,
or maybe take up singing or dancing.
But I like Tae Kwon Do. I fantasize about the
day I can throw Mark over my shoulder, slam
him to the ground, and look down at him like
he’s a stray dog. “You’re garbage,” I’d
whisper.
I look at myself in the mirror. “That day will
come,” I tell myself. “It will.”
I know he’ll be sleeping in the study. Around
eleven, I bring him a glass of warm milk. I’ve
always been good at taking care of people.
He looks at me, lust flickering in his eyes. He
loosens his tie, leaning back in his chair.
L
I blush, fiddling with my fingers. “Honey,” I
murmur. “I went to see Mom and Dad today.
Their house is so… old. Could we buy them a
new one? One with an elevator?”
To be fair, despite the affair, Mark has always
been good to my parents. He probably feels
guilty. And the mood is right. He pulls me
onto his lap. “One kiss, and it’s yours.”
“Call your finance guy first. Then I’ll kiss
you.” I’ve learned to negotiate.
Desire flares in his eyes. He calls his CFO,
instructing him to prepare a transfer for me.
The amount? Up to me.
While he’s on the phone, I wrap my arms
around his neck and send a text to Tiffany.
“Your man is about to have a little ‘quality
く
time‘ with me. Any objections?”
Mark’s call ends, and Tiffany’s video call
comes in right on cue. He pushes my arms
from his neck, moves to the window, irritated.
“Why aren’t you asleep?… Miss me? Good
girl. Just one night. Let’s leave the video chat
on.” I walk out, slamming the door. I text
Tiffany: “You win.”
Tiffany’s a local. Her dad’s a gambler; her
mom left when she was a kid. She’s a
product of pure luck. A few years ago, her
dad was delivering takeout. Now he seems to
have money again, living it up at the mahjong
parlor. Small stakes, but he always loses.
He’s hooked up with some woman there; he
loses, she wins. I scoff. Only a family like that
could produce someone so morally bankrupt.
