Mark and I had been married for ten years—two kids, a shared mortgage, and what I believed was a steady life. I ran the house, raised the children, and kept things together. Mark didn’t do much around the house, but I chalked it up to traditional roles. I told myself, “We’re a team,” even if I was carrying most of the weight.
But that illusion shattered one afternoon.
I’d just returned from the grocery store, arms full of heavy bags, when I heard voices coming from the front porch. It was Mark and Emma, our 25-year-old neighbor who had recently moved back home. Her parents adored her, always bragging about her interior design internship. I nearly called out to greet them—until I heard what they were saying.
Hidden behind my car, I listened.
Emma laughed. “I can’t believe she hasn’t figured it out.”
Mark replied, “She’s too busy with the kids. Lexie barely notices anything. She’s gotten so gray—tries to cover it, but it shows. She’s nothing like you, my princess.”
Then they kissed. My stomach dropped. The betrayal burned through my chest. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t storm the porch. I just carried the groceries inside and started thinking.
The next morning, I made Mark breakfast—his favorite. Fluffy eggs, extra crispy bacon, cinnamon in his coffee. I kissed him goodbye, smiled, and waved as he left for work. Then I went next door and invited Emma over.
She looked surprised, even nervous. I smiled warmly and told her I wanted help redecorating the living room. She agreed without hesitation, clearly thinking she’d won.
The next evening, she showed up dressed to impress. I welcomed her in with a smile. “Before we look at the living room,” I said, “I wanted to show you a few things.”
I walked her through the house, giving her the full domestic rundown. The dishwasher schedule. The laundry setup for the kids’ sensitive skin. After-school pickups. Contact numbers for the plumber, electrician, pediatrician. In the kitchen, I explained dinner preferences: Mark likes steak medium-rare; the kids want it well-done.
Emma’s smile vanished.
Then Mark walked in. He froze when he saw us.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Oh,” I said, sweetly, “I figured since you’re so close with Emma now, she should take over. I’m clearly not the woman you want, so she can handle the house, the chores, the kids. I’m done.”
Before they could respond, the doorbell rang. Emma’s parents.
“Lexie! It smells amazing in here,” her father said.
“Thanks for coming,” I replied. “Emma and Mark are growing so close—I thought it was time she really joined the family.”
Confusion turned to horror as the truth dawned on her parents. Her mother demanded answers. Emma stammered. Mark panicked and threw her under the bus.
“She came onto me!”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you just went along with it? Betrayed your wife and insulted her, too?”
Emma’s father stepped in, furious. “Emma, Mark—this ends now. We’re leaving.”
Emma glared as she left, her parents dragging her out. Mark turned to me, desperate.
“Lexie, please, we’ve been together for so long—you owe me a conversation.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “My lawyer will call you tomorrow.”
He begged, asked where he should go.
“I don’t care,” I said, pulling a roast chicken from the oven. “Motel. Couch. Your circus princess.”
“And the kids?”
“They’re with my sister. You’ll see them after the lawyers settle everything.”
A week later, Emma dumped him. “I didn’t sign up to play mom,” she reportedly said.
Two weeks later, Mark showed up with flowers.
“I miss our family.”
“I don’t,” I replied, slamming the door.
Months have passed. I’m happier than I’ve been in years. I’ve taken up salsa dancing. I laugh more. My kids and I have found joy in our new rhythm. And Mark? He’s still single. Emma’s parents, though disappointed, now drop off baked goods and help with yard work.
Funny how karma works.
