After My Husband Moved His Mistress Into Our Home

Russell's text came through at eleven that night.

*I'm sorry for your loss.*

Six words. No call. No offer to come home. I stared at the screen until it went dark, then set the phone face-down on the kitchen table.

My mother's photograph sat beside it. The one I'd found beneath her pillow at the facility. She was young in it. Maybe thirty. Smiling at whoever held the camera. I didn't remember her ever smiling like that.

I touched the edge of the frame. My fingers left prints on the glass.

The funeral home gave me a list of questions. Flowers. Music. Open casket or closed. I answered each one in a voice that didn't sound like mine. Sienna offered to come with me. I told her I was fine.

I wasn't fine.

But fine was all I had left.

*

The chapel was small. Twenty minutes outside the city. White walls. Simple wooden pews. I'd chosen it because my mother used to take me there when I was little, back when her mind was still whole.

I arrived early. Stood at the front near the casket — closed, because I couldn't bear to see her face one more time — and watched people trickle in. Sienna. A few nurses from the facility. Some distant cousins I hadn't seen in years.

No Russell.

No Barbara.

No one from the Griffin family at all.

I wore black. Simple dress. My mother's pearl earrings. I'd washed the blood off my hands but I could still feel it. Still see her eyes going dim in the garden.

The service was supposed to start at two.

At one fifty-eight, the chapel doors opened.

Heels clicked on the tile. Sharp. Deliberate. Too loud for a funeral.

I turned.

Daphne stood in the doorway.

She wore red. Not burgundy. Not wine. Crimson. A cocktail dress that clung to her curves and stopped mid-thigh. Her hair was curled. Her lips matched the dress. She looked like she was headed to a charity gala.

The chapel went silent.

She smiled. Small. Apologetic. The kind of smile that said *oops* without meaning it.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said softly. She walked down the aisle, hips swaying, heels echoing. "Traffic was terrible."

She slid into the front pew. Right beside where I was standing. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something expensive. Something that didn't belong in a room full of grief.

Sienna's hand found my arm. "Layla—"

I pulled away.

I didn't plan it. Didn't think. My hand moved before my brain caught up.

The slap cracked through the chapel like a gunshot.

Daphne's head snapped to the side. Her hand flew to her cheek. When she looked back at me, her eyes were wide. Shocked.

"You killed her," I said. My voice was quiet. Steady. "You went to that facility and you killed her."

"Layla, I didn't—"

I grabbed the front of her dress. The fabric tore. A seam split at the shoulder. She stumbled back, tried to pull away, but I held on.

"You stood in front of my mother and you mocked her. You waved that picture in her face. You laughed." My hands shook. The red fabric crumpled in my fists. "She died protecting me from you."

"I didn't mean—" Daphne's voice broke into a sob. Real tears now. Or close enough. "I was just trying to connect with her. I didn't know she'd—"

"Liar."

I shoved her. She fell back into the pew. Her perfect curls bounced. Her mascara started to run.

That was when Russell walked in.

I didn't hear the door. Didn't hear his footsteps. I only knew he was there when his hands closed around my arms and yanked me backward.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he shouted.

I twisted in his grip. "Let go of me."

"You attacked her!" He pulled me further from Daphne, who was still sobbing in the pew, clutching her torn dress. "At your own mother's funeral. Have you lost your mind?"

The chapel was dead silent. Every eye on us. Sienna stood frozen. One of the nurses had her hand over her mouth.

I stopped struggling. Looked up at Russell. Really looked at him.

He was furious. Face red. Jaw clenched. Staring at me like I was something dangerous. Something that needed to be contained.

"She showed up in red," I said quietly. "To my mother's funeral. She wore red."

"So what?" Russell's grip tightened. "That gives you the right to assault her?"

"She killed her, Russell."

"Your mother had a heart attack. Daphne didn't—"

"She went to the facility. She brought her friends. They laughed at her. They waved pictures of my father's affair in her face until her heart gave out." My voice cracked. "And you don't care. You don't care at all."

Russell's eyes narrowed. "You're unhinged," he said. Low. Cold. "Just like your mother."

The words hit like a fist to the chest.

Somewhere behind me, someone gasped.

I stared at him. This man I'd loved. This man I'd pulled out of his own darkness. This man who'd just compared me to my dead mother in front of everyone I knew.

Something inside me went very quiet. Very still.

"We're done," I whispered.

Russell blinked. "What?"

"We're done." I pulled my arms free. He let me go this time. "I want a divorce."

His face changed. Confusion. Then anger. "You don't mean that."

"I do." I looked past him to where Daphne sat, still crying, still clutching her dress. "You can have her. You can have all of it. I'm done."

I turned and walked down the aisle. Past the pews. Past the mourners. Past my mother's casket.

I touched my pearl earrings one last time.

And I walked out of that chapel into the cold afternoon air, leaving my marriage behind like another body in a box.