My Husband Promoted His Mistress, So I Walked Away

So I was certain he wouldn't actually let me go to HR.

Sure enough, the next second he loosened his tie and forced a few words out through his teeth:

"Fine. Don't come crying about it later!"

"I'll personally handle Agatha's follow-up projects, so don't flatter yourself thinking this company stops running without you!"

"You have one month to hand off everything to Director Mason. After that, I won't stand in your way."

He didn't wait for me to answer before walking back into the general manager's office.

The last thing I saw before the door closed was him draping a blanket over Agatha, asleep on the sofa.

The stomach really is an emotional organ. No matter how hard I pretended not to care, I couldn't ignore the dull ache there.

It didn't stop me from pulling out my phone and sending a message:

"Resignation effective in one month. We can discuss the rest of the terms in person."

That night, after two subway transfers, I got home before Abraham did.

Normally he drove and I took the subway, and he always beat me home.

I sat on the sofa without turning on the lights, quietly looking around the home I'd lived in for five years.

Back then Abraham hadn't been promoted to general manager yet. We were both just ordinary designers.

We scrimped and saved for a long time before we could scrape together the down payment for this place.

It didn't matter that the location was out of the way, that the layout was awkward.

Next to the sense of belonging it gave me, none of that was worth mentioning.

Only tonight, sitting here, for some reason it suddenly felt unfamiliar.

At ten, Abraham came home, a cake in his hand.

I went still for a moment.

We'd never been in the habit of celebrating our wedding anniversary.

Maybe the day had gone badly enough that he wanted to smooth things over.

Seeing me on the sofa surprised him a little. "Still up?"

I walked over, my hand freezing midair as I reached out.

Only half the cake was left, the heart in the center scooped out and eaten.

I actually spent a few seconds confirming it wasn't meant to look that way on purpose.

He set the cake down on the dining table without ceremony.

"I bought it to celebrate Agatha's promotion, but the girl only had a few bites before saying she was afraid of getting fat."

"I remembered you mentioned wanting cake a while back, so I brought the rest home for you."

My throat felt blocked. I couldn't make a sound.

Back when we were paying off the mortgage, I never bought myself a single decent piece of clothing. I wore my sister's hand-me-downs.

Even at the grocery store, I'd pick out the bruised, marked-down produce.

From the day we cleared that mortgage, I told him: I, Winona Sullivan, would never again take anyone's leftovers.

And now he was handing me a leftover cake. One he'd bought for another woman, no less.

When the sound of his shower drifted out, I began drafting the divorce agreement on my phone.

The next morning, Abraham stood with me at the elevator.

I looked at him, puzzled. This wasn't the time he usually left for work.

The corners of his mouth curved up as he typed out a message, saying offhandedly:

"Agatha's on her period today and she's not feeling great, so I'm swinging by to pick her up."

"If I remember right, going to her apartment is a forty-minute detour for you, isn't it?"

"It's only forty minutes. Just a tap on the gas."

The mirror in the elevator reflected our faces.

One worn out, the exhaustion no amount of full makeup could hide. One flush with delight, eyes on his phone.

My thoughts were still stuck on what he'd just said.

I remembered the time I'd been out shopping with a friend. It was pouring outside, and I'd asked him to drive over and pick me up at the subway entrance.

He'd said, "Just grab a cab home. Taking the car out is too much of a hassle."

A ten-minute drive was a hassle. Forty minutes was just a tap on the gas.

When we reached the ground floor, he hesitated, then asked, "How about it? Want a ride with me?"

I shook my head and stepped out of the elevator.

He let out a breath and pressed the button to close the doors.