He Kept Me Poor,While His Mistress Wore My Heirloom

And what I got in return was him keeping a young, pretty girlfriend on the side, showering her with jewelry every few months.

Robert watched me say nothing. He grabbed a change of clothes from the closet and went into the bathroom.

When the water started running, I stood up and walked to the shoe cabinet by the door.

His briefcase was sitting there. Black leather, corners worn white.

All this time, I'd believed he carried that bag onto the subway every morning, heading to his little office job at some company called “Houda Tech.”

There were two phones inside.

One was his everyday phone. The lock screen was our wedding photo, and the passcode was my birthday.

The other was black, thinner, screen-down at the bottom of the bag.

I picked it up and pressed the power button.

The screen lit up. Password required.

I tried his birthday first. Wrong.

Then our anniversary. Wrong again.

I paused. Valerie's face flashed through my mind, then her Instagram bio.

Her profile listed her birthday：March 12th.

I typed it in.

.

The screen unlocked.

My hands started shaking. Not from the cold. Because that passcode told me something more bluntly than anything else could.

The most important place in his life had been given to someone else a long time ago.

The messaging app had a red notification bubble. I tapped it. The first pinned conversation was labeled “Val.”

I opened it.

“Babe, I accidentally clipped some lady on an electric scooter today. Poor thing looked rough.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah, just a scrape. I told her to come by your office tomorrow to pick up some cash. Just give her ten, fifteen grand, whatever.”

“Fine. Handle it however you want.”

“Babe, do you think I'll end up like that someday? All dull and washed out, can't even bother with lipstick, looking ten years older than she actually is. I'm so scared of turning into one of those women.”

“Stop overthinking it. I'll wire you $150,000 later. Spend it on whatever you want. Spa, shopping, all of it.”

The ache hit me again. In seven years of marriage, I'd barely touched a single piece of makeup.

Last month my face was so dry it was cracking, and I'd begged Robert to buy me some sheet masks.

He'd grudgingly ordered some off a bargain site. The cheapest ones they had, less than fifty cents each.

And told me to use them sparingly. Said they were too expensive.

I scrolled further up. More records flooded the screen.

Last Valentine's Day, he'd wired her $75,000. The memo read “Happy Valentine's Day.”

That same day, he told me the company was doing poorly, bonuses had been cut, and asked if I could get by on $500 less for the month.

Last New Year's, he took her to Miami. They stayed in an $11,000-a-night oceanview suite.

He'd told me the company needed him to work the holiday shift. Told me to go spend it at my parents' place.

The year before that, for her birthday, he bought her a BMW. Over $130,000 after tax and registration.

That day he told me his father's illness had flared up again and he needed another $50,000.

So I handed over every cent I'd saved for the better part of a year.

Message after message. Each one a blade, sinking deeper.

What gutted me wasn't the affair. It was that while he was cheating, he was also bleeding me dry.

The water stopped.

I put the briefcase back exactly where it was, sat down on the couch, and slipped the phone into my pocket.

The bathroom door opened. Robert walked out in those faded old shorts, toweling his hair. He glanced at me.

“You're not in bed yet?”

“Going now.”

He grunted, draped the towel over the back of a chair, walked to the bed, pulled the covers back, and lay down.

Within two minutes, he was snoring.

He really was tired.