After My Husband Gave My Song to His Mistress

The first voicemail came at eight in the morning.

I was sitting at the kitchen island, drinking my black coffee. The phone buzzed on the counter. Beckett’s name flashed on the screen. I didn’t pick up. I let it ring out, then pressed play on the speaker.

"Everly," his voice came through, smooth and steady. He had that calm, patient tone he used with difficult freshmen. "You’re clearly going through something right now. I understand you're upset. I'm going to give you some space so we can discuss this like adults."

I tapped the screen and deleted it.

The second call came at seven that evening. His patience was already slipping.

"Everly, pick up," he snapped. The background noise sounded like a crowded restaurant. Yasmin’s high laugh drifted through the speaker. "This has gone far enough. You locked me out of my own house. Call me back right now."

Delete.

The third call came the next afternoon. This time, he didn't bother trying to sound reasonable. His voice shook with anger.

"I talked to a lawyer, Everly. You can’t just change the deadbolts. It’s an illegal lockout. You have twenty-four hours to give me a key, or I will take legal action. Do you hear me?"

I listened all the way to the end. My pulse didn't even spike. I pressed delete, set the phone face down, and went back to tuning my violin.

***

He had moved into Yasmin’s one-bedroom apartment in the East Village. I knew this because Brenda, the NYU music department secretary, called me on Thursday afternoon.

"Everly? Thank God," Brenda sighed into the phone. "Is Beckett sick? He missed the morning faculty meeting. Dean Miller was furious."

"I wouldn't know, Brenda," I said quietly.

"Well, he’s totally disorganized," she complained. "He completely forgot about the student showcase this Friday. And then he had the nerve to call me, demanding his portal password. I told him, *Beckett, your wife manages the calendar. It’s always been on the shared drive.*" Brenda paused, waiting for me to chime in. "Did you two have a fight?"

"We’re getting a divorce," I told her.

Brenda went silent for three full seconds. "Oh. Oh, Everly. I'm... I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," I said. "Have a good afternoon, Brenda."

I hung up and smiled faintly.

For ten years, I was Beckett’s brain. I tracked his rehearsals. I registered his classes. I edited his syllabus and ironed the shirts he wore to impress the board. He thought he was brilliant all on his own. He was about to find out how heavy the real world was without me holding it up.

He didn't call me to ask for the passwords. His pride wouldn't let him.

***

On Saturday morning, the front door rattled.

A key slid into the lock, but of course, it didn't turn. Then came heavy pounding.

I walked down the stairs and opened the door.

Maddox stood on the stoop. He was eleven years old, tall for his age, with Beckett’s dark eyes and sharp jawline. He wore his private school blazer and dragged a duffel bag behind him.

He pushed past me into the front hall without a greeting.

"Why did you change the locks?" he demanded. His face was flushed red. "Dad couldn't get in to get my clothes. He had to wait in the car around the corner."

"Hello, Maddox," I said softly.

He dropped his bag on the hardwood floor with a loud thud. He glared at me with pure disgust. It was the exact same look his father gave me whenever I spoke out of turn.

"Dad told me what you did," Maddox yelled. His voice bounced off the high ceiling. "You threw his stuff on the street! Because of some stupid concert? Yasmin is ten times the player you are! Dad said she has real passion, and you’re just bitter."

My chest tightened. A sharp ache hit the back of my throat.

I looked down at his shoes. I had bought those sneakers for his birthday. I thought of the night he had a 104-degree fever as a baby. Beckett wouldn't leave his studio, so I walked through a blizzard to get his medicine. I froze my fingers so this boy could breathe.

And now, he looked at me like I was dirt.

"You're embarrassing," Maddox sneered, taking a step toward me. "Look at you. You just sit around the house all day. You're just a sad, jealous woman. Nobody wants to watch a housewife throw a tantrum."

The words cut deep, but I didn't flinch. Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and sharp, but I froze them right there. I refused to let a single drop fall.

I stood tall. My hands stayed steady at my sides.

"Are you done?" I asked. My voice was low. Completely flat.

Maddox blinked, caught off guard by my silence. He expected me to cry. He expected me to drop to my knees, beg for his forgiveness, and make him pancakes.

When I didn't move, his jaw set hard.

"I'm staying with Dad and Yasmin," he snapped. He grabbed his duffel bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder. "Her apartment is nicer anyway. At least she doesn't act crazy."

He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit.

I didn't reach for his arm. I didn't say his name. I didn't offer a single excuse.

He walked out onto the stoop. The front door swung shut behind him with a heavy, final click.

The hallway went dead silent.

I took a deep, slow breath. The house was empty. It was finally mine.