My Husband Made Me Cook For His Pregnant Mistress

The fish market was twenty minutes away. I drove with my left hand on the wheel. My right hand throbbed under three layers of gauze and medical tape.

The woman behind the counter wrapped the monkfish in brown paper. The prawns. The mussels. She looked at my bandaged hand.

"You okay, honey?"

"I'm fine."

At home, Jonathan and Aylin sat on the couch. His arm stretched along the back cushions. Not touching her, but close. The television played some cooking show. Aylin laughed at something the host said.

The sound was light. Musical. Designed to travel.

I carried the bags to the kitchen. Set them on the counter. Unwrapped the fish.

The stockpot was already on the stove. I'd started the broth before I left. Saffron and white wine. Tomato and fennel. The smell filled the kitchen.

I filleted the monkfish one-handed. The knife moved steady. Clean cuts. No wasted motion.

My palm burned. The bandage was damp. I didn't look at it.

I'd made this dish maybe thirty times before I got it right. The first attempt, I'd burned the roux. The second, the broth was too thin. The third, I couldn't find fresh saffron and tried to substitute turmeric. Jonathan had taken one bite and set down his spoon without comment.

The fourth time, I drove two hours to a specialty market. Bought real Spanish saffron. Came home and started over.

By the fifteenth attempt, my forearm had a burn scar from the stockpot handle. By the twentieth, I could make it in my sleep.

The thirtieth time, Jonathan had smiled. Kissed my forehead. Said it was perfect.

I added the monkfish to the broth. The prawns. Stirred once. Let it simmer.

From the living room, Aylin's voice drifted in. Warm. Casual.

"Remember that little bistro near the monument? The one with the jazz trio on Thursdays?"

Jonathan murmured something I couldn't hear.

"God, I love that place," Aylin continued. "The mussels there are incredible. Almost as good as this smells."

I set the spoon down. Wiped my good hand on a towel.

The broth was the color of sunset. Rich. Fragrant. Perfect.

I ladled it into bowls. Arranged the fish carefully. Garnished with fresh parsley.

Carried the bowls to the dining table on a tray.

"Dinner's ready."

Jonathan stood immediately. Stretched. "Smells amazing, Em."

Aylin rose more slowly. One hand on her belly. She moved like someone carrying something precious.

We sat. Jonathan at the head of the table. Aylin to his right. Me across from her.

Aylin picked up her spoon. Tasted. Closed her eyes.

"Oh my god," she said softly. "This is incredible."

She looked at Jonathan. "Remember when we tried to make this at your place? We gave up after an hour and ordered pizza."

Jonathan laughed. "That kitchen was the size of a closet. No way we could've pulled this off."

Aylin smiled. Took another bite. "Everyone at the D.C. events always asks about you. 'Where's Captain Perkins tonight?' They miss you when you're down here."

"I miss them too," Jonathan said.

I ate slowly. The broth was perfect. Exactly the way I'd made it thirty times before.

Aylin set down her spoon. Leaned back slightly. "Your friends are wonderful, Jon. Especially Martinez. He's hilarious. What does he call you again? 'Johnny P'?"

Jonathan grinned. "Yeah. Since basic."

"I love that," Aylin said. She looked at me. "Do you call him that?"

I met her eyes. "No."

She tilted her head. "What do you call him?"

"Jonathan."

Her smile didn't waver. "How formal."

Jonathan reached for the bread basket. "Em's always been traditional. I like that about her."

He said it like a compliment. Like he was reassuring a child.

Aylin finished her bowl. Dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "That was wonderful, Emberly. Thank you for going to so much trouble."

"It wasn't any trouble," I said.

Jonathan stood. Stretched again. "I'm beat. Long drive."

Aylin rose. Smiled at me. "Goodnight."

They walked upstairs together. I heard the guest room door close.

I sat at the table. Looked at the empty bowls. The perfect broth. The carefully arranged fish.

Then I stood. Cleared the dishes. Washed them by hand. My bandaged palm ached.

I dried the bowls. Put them away. Wiped down the counter. Turned off the lights.

Upstairs, the house was dark. Silent.

I walked to the living room. Stood in front of the bookshelf.

The wedding photo sat in a silver frame. Jonathan in his dress uniform. Me in white. Both of us smiling.

I picked it up. Looked at it for a long moment.

Then I opened the hall closet. Pulled out a black trash bag.

I took the photo out of the frame. Dropped it in the bag.

The anniversary cards were in a box on the shelf. I dumped them in. Didn't read them.

The dried rose from the gas station. The one he'd brought home after a year-long deployment. I'd kept it in a vase by the window. The petals were brittle now. Brown.

I dropped it in the bag.

The framed snapshot from his promotion ceremony. Another from a family Christmas. Another from the day he got his orders.

One by one. Into the bag.

I moved through the house in the dark. Methodical. Steady.

I wasn't crying. Wasn't shaking.

I was simply removing evidence of a life that had never been real.

When I finished, the bag was heavy. Full.

I tied it closed. Set it by the back door.

Then I went upstairs. Passed the closed guest room door. Heard nothing.

In the master bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed. The same bed Aylin had lain on earlier. Sighing about how comfortable it was.

I pulled open the dresser drawer. The divorce papers were still there. Folded. Waiting.

I took them out. Unfolded them. Read them once.

Then I stood. Walked to the desk. Found a pen.

Signed my name on both copies.

The ink was black. My handwriting was steady.

I folded the papers again. Put them back in the drawer.

Then I lay down on top of the covers. Fully dressed. Staring at the ceiling.

Outside, the North Carolina night was silent. No crickets. No wind.

Just the sound of my own breathing.

And the faint, distant hum of a life I was already leaving behind.