My Husband Fell for a Karaoke Hostess

One of the posts on my other Instagram account is a 9-grid collage recently uploaded by that karaoke girl, Nora Hawke.

One of the photos features a luxury handbag worth nearly $40,000.

And in the corner of the shot, there’s a gift box tied with a bow—exactly like the one Wyatt had pulled out earlier.

A lump formed in my chest. I felt like screaming at him.

But the words got stuck in my throat. I didn’t want to be that woman—the one who just lashes out.

I forced myself to calm down, speaking in the calmest tone I could manage: “Mm, thanks. Just leave it there.”

Wyatt, looking pleased with himself, said, “Do you like it? I picked it out just for you.”

I scoffed, not wanting to say a word, and turned to walk away.

His anger flared at my sudden coldness. His brows furrowed as he grabbed my arm. “When I don’t get you a gift, you throw a fit. Now that I actually get you something, this is the attitude I get? What do you really want from me?”

I looked at him, holding my throbbing head. “Think whatever you want.”

His blood pressure clearly shot up. His temples bulged, and he yelled, “Susan, what’s your problem?! I’m trying to talk to you calmly, and this is how you respond?”

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my cool, and said slowly, “So, what do you want me to do?”

He stared at me, his voice rising. “What do I want? I want you to understand me! I work my ass off every day for this family, don’t I?”

I couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears stung my eyes, and I snapped, “For this family? Is that why you gave me a fake bag and are yelling at me like this?”

For a moment, he was speechless, his face turning red, but then he stubbornly shot back, “So what if it’s fake? At least I got you a bag. Be grateful!”

I didn’t say another word. I stood up and walked toward the bedroom.

He didn’t follow me. Instead, he sat down and started scrolling through his phone.

As I closed the bedroom door, I heard him start a video call.

His sweet voice and muffled laughter drifted through the door.

Later that night, I heard him twist the doorknob. I opened my eyes.

My phone buzzed with a message notification.

[Susan, what’s the meaning of locking the door?]

[You want to sleep in separate rooms now?]

[Fine, don’t regret it.]

[Who would want to sleep with you anyway? Look at yourself now. Even if you stripped down and came to me, I wouldn’t be interested.]

I didn’t respond. I just stared at the ceiling until the sound of the doorknob stopped, and then I finally fell into a deep sleep.

In the past, when he wasn’t home at night, I’d toss and turn, unable to sleep.

Then, his return times started getting later and later, and my heart would grow more uneasy.

At first, I’d wait at home, then start calling around, checking if anyone had seen him.

If I couldn’t find him, I’d sit in the living room until dawn.

But now, holding my child, I felt a strange calmness.

It didn’t seem to matter as much whether he came back or not anymore.

The next day, I had the nanny look after the baby while I went out to consult a divorce lawyer.