My Husband's Ex Will Never Be My Rival

Once everything was finally taken care of, Julian finished washing up and sat down at the dining table for breakfast.

I sat across from him. “Clara’s coming back this afternoon. Did you know?”

Julian swallowed the bread in his mouth, finished the bowl of porridge, then pulled out a napkin and wiped his lips before replying, “I know. I’ll come home early this afternoon.”

After that, he stood, got dressed neatly, and left—without sparing me so much as a second glance.

As always, I finished my breakfast, threw the clothes into the washing machine, and started tidying up the house, cleaning every corner inside and out…

By the time all the chores were done, it was already close to noon.

I glanced down at the bloodstains on my clothes and only then remembered to change.

In the mirror, I barely recognized myself—hair a mess, face bare, looking worn out and neglected. For a moment, I felt strangely dazed.

How long had it been since I’d put on makeup, since I’d dressed up?

How long had it been since I’d had any time that was just mine?

Probably since Clara was born.

After Clara, my skin lost its firmness, turning dull and sallow. My body changed, warped into something I didn’t recognize.

Clara had been premature. I didn’t trust a nanny with her, and breast milk was the best nutrition, so naturally, I set the company aside and stayed home to raise her.

With a baby constantly crying to be fed, there was suddenly so much more to do—nursing, changing diapers, wiping her down, bathing her, washing clothes, watching her every moment. It took nearly all my time. I had no room left to care about how I looked.

And then, like so many married women, my days became nothing but children, family, and the endless cycle of daily necessities. Little by little, I turned into what everyone called a “washed-up housewife.”

Julian Frost went from tender devotion to distance… and now, even impatience and disdain.

I stared at my rough hands and thought of Iris’s slender, delicate ones. Maybe Iris was the one who truly understood how to live.

That evening, Julian came home unusually early. In front of Clara, he was rare in his attentiveness—asking if I was cold, saying a few domestic, ordinary things.

Only when Clara was home did I feel like his wife instead of a nanny.

I carried the last dish—stir-fried greens—to the table and sat down. Julian took a phone call, then, with guilt written all over his face, he stroked Clara’s head.

“Clara, something urgent came up at the company. I have to go. Daddy will spend time with you tomorrow, okay?”

“What?” Clara protested. “Dad, what could be so urgent? Can’t you at least finish dinner first? Mom worked so hard to make all this. If you’re not here, it just doesn’t feel right.”

At that, he turned and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Then he stood and hurried out the door.

“Dad—!”

Clara’s voice was swallowed by the sound of it closing.

I sat frozen, fingertips brushing the damp spot on my cheek. The warmth lingered, but my heart was ice-cold—because in the instant he kissed me, I saw it.

Disgust.

After all these years of marriage, this was what I’d earned—his disgust.

If he was disgusted, then why kiss me at all?

I looked at Clara. He just needed to perform the role of a good husband in front of her.

Clara sank back into her seat, her eyes clouded, her words hesitant. “Mom… is Dad really…?”

I stared at her, startled, and let out a bitter laugh. “Where did you hear that?”

Clara’s face flushed bright red. “Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about it. How could I not know?” Then she huffed, angry and impatient. “You’re the only one still pretending you don’t hear it, fooling yourself. Mom—should we go rip the mistress apart? I’ll go with you. We can’t just let this slide!”

I couldn’t help asking her, “Clara… do men just naturally like younger, prettier women? Or is it that they always want something new?”

Clara—way too sharp for her age—nodded seriously. “Yeah. That’s men’s rotten nature.”