MY HUSBAND’S MISTRESS SHOWED UP AT MY FRONT DOOR, HANDED ME HER COAT, AND SAID, “TELL RICHARD I’M HERE.” SHE THOUGHT I WAS THE HELP. IN MY OWN HOUSE. SHE HAD NO IDEA I WAS RICHARD’S WIFE OF TWELVE YEARS—OR THAT THE “LITTLE COMPANY JOB” SHE MOCKED WAS ME RUNNING THE BUSINESS THAT KEPT HIS WHOLE LIFE AFLOAT. TWENTY MINUTES LATER, HE WALKED IN. BY THAT NIGHT, HE WAS PACKING A SUITCASE. AND THREE WEEKS LATER, I MADE ONE CALL THAT TOOK THE REST OF IT TOO.

My husband’s mistress rang my bell on a Saturday afternoon and acted like I worked for her.

That’s the clean version.

The real version is worse.

I opened my own front door in jeans and an old college sweatshirt, and this blonde little thing—maybe twenty-five, perfect hair, expensive dress, full confidence—looked me over, handed me her coat, and said, “Tell Richard I’m here.”

Then she walked right past me into my house.

My house.

Not figuratively.

Literally.

She stepped into the foyer, looked around like she was doing a walkthrough, and said, “This place needs updating. I’ll talk to Richard about it.”

I just stood there holding her designer coat, trying to decide whether I was in shock or already past it.

Richard is my husband.

Or he was.

Twelve years married. Built that life together—or at least I thought we did. Worked two jobs while he finished med school. Helped carry him through the years when his ego was bigger than his income. Backed his practice while it bled money. Paid bills he liked to pretend came out of thin air.

And now some girl young enough to be mistaken for his daughter was in my foyer talking about my house like she was about to redo the crown molding.

She asked, “Where is Richard?”

I said, “Not here.”

She sighed. “Well, when’s he getting back? I don’t have all day.”

Then I asked, “Who are you?”

Even though by then, yeah, I pretty much knew.

She smiled and said, “I’m Alexis. Richard’s girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

Then she tilted her head and hit me with, “And you are… the help, apparently?”

The help.

She actually laughed.

Then said, “Though honestly, Richard usually has better dressed staff. Are you new?”

In my own house.

I said, “I’ve been here twelve years.”

She rolled her eyes. “The help always says that. Just tell Richard I’m here. I’ll wait in the living room.”

And she did.

Walked straight in, sat on my couch, put her feet on my coffee table—the one Richard and I bought at an estate sale our first year married and refinished together in the garage.

Then she called out, “Can you bring me water? With lemon. Not too much ice.”

So I brought her water.

No lemon.

Way too much ice.

She took one sip, made a face, and said, “Is Richard training you? This is not how he likes things done.”

I said, “How does Richard like things done?”

She said, “Properly. Efficiently. With respect for his guests.”

Guests.

That word almost made me laugh.

So I asked, “Are you here a lot?”

She leaned back like we were girlfriends chatting and said, “Every Tuesday and Thursday when his wife’s at work. Sometimes Saturdays if she’s at her book club.”

I don’t have a book club.

And I hadn’t worked Tuesdays or Thursdays in two months.

Richard just didn’t know that yet.

So I kept going.

“You seem to know a lot about his wife.”

She laughed.

“I know enough. Older. Let herself go. Boring.”

Then she really got comfortable.

Said Richard was only still with his wife because it was “cheaper to keep her.” Said his wife trapped him young. Said she was probably some frumpy woman who didn’t even know what Botox was. Said he deserved someone younger, prettier, better.

Then came the part that really did it.