My Husband's Ex Will Never Be My Rival

I gave a bitter little laugh. “So you want to go tear that mistress apart—then what? Your dad won’t just go find another one somewhere else? There are so many young, pretty girls out there. Do you think we can fight them all off?”

Besides, it’s better if she’s right under my nose. At least then I know what’s happening. But I didn’t say that.

Clara’s voice turned sharp with impatience. “Mom, then what are we supposed to do?”

I said evenly, “The key has never been her. It’s always been your father.”

Clara looked lost for a moment. “Dad? But Dad…” Then she glanced at me again. “Mom, I’m just saying—you should really dress yourself up.”

I looked at her. “How?”

Clara thought about it. “Like Iris. Look at how she dresses. She’s in her forties, but her figure and her vibe still make people look twice. If you were like Iris, Dad wouldn’t go looking outside.”

In the end, he was still her father. She still couldn’t bring herself to blame him. I couldn’t help the sarcasm that slipped out.

“Mom’s hips got wider because I had you. My stomach got loose. My breasts changed shape because I nursed you. I stopped working to take care of you—every day I was exhausted, running myself ragged between formula and diapers, three meals a day, and all the little chores that never end. If I were like your Iris, with full makeup and manicures, who would wash your clothes, cook your meals, and keep the house together?”

“Mom…” Clara lowered her head, guilt all over her face. She came around and wrapped her arms tightly around me. “Mom, I’m sorry. I just… I just think it’s not fair to you. Dad, he…”

I patted her hand gently. “I’m not blaming you. It just reminded me of something. Someone once asked me—when you grow old and your youth is gone, will that man still love you the same?”

Clara asked, curious, “Who said that?”

My eyes drifted, unfocused. “An old friend of mine.”

“…Maybe I really do need to change.”

The next morning, I pulled out a set of workout clothes. I’d bought it last year while grocery shopping, but I’d never worn it. I never had time to exercise or go for morning runs.

Today, I put it on. I tied my hair up high and swiped on a simple coat of lipstick. Instantly, I looked more awake—more alive.

I went to wake Clara. She blinked at me, still half asleep. “Mom, what are you doing up so early?”

I pulled her up. “Want to go running with me?”

“Running?” Clara stared at me, startled, and her sleepiness vanished. “Mom, you’re not going to the market?”

I shook my head. “No. Didn’t you want me to change? We’re going running. Starting today, I’m working out—going to get rid of this belly.”

Clara’s eyes lit up. She scrambled out of bed and grabbed her own workout clothes. “Mom, you should’ve done this a long time ago!”

She tugged me out the door, practically bouncing with excitement. Right before we left, she hesitated and asked, “Dad, he…”

I gave a flat little hum. “Let him sleep. He didn’t come home until the middle of the night.”

Clara’s expression tightened. “Then forget him.”

We ran two laps around the complex. On the way, we passed a few familiar older neighbors, and they looked at me with obvious surprise.

I knew exactly what they were thinking. At this hour, I was supposed to be at the market, rushing to grab meat and vegetables. So why was I jogging around like I had all the time in the world?

I ignored their stares, smiled, and greeted them one by one.

After the run, I took Clara to a restaurant and we ate breakfast at our own pace.

Sitting there, I suddenly realized it had been so long since I’d sat down like this—calmly, unhurried—enjoying a proper morning meal.

Every morning, I used to get up at six. Before I even washed up, I’d go straight into the kitchen, rinse the rice, and put it into the electric clay pot, set the timer, and let it slowly simmer.