Husband's Affair with the Intern

The craft room had become my sanctuary—a small space tucked behind the kitchen where I used to make scrapbooks of Mila's milestones and birthday decorations. Now it served a different purpose entirely.

I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, surrounded by sheets of colored paper in soft pastels—the same colors I'd chosen for our wedding. My fingers moved with practiced precision, folding each sheet into a perfect five-pointed star. Crease, fold, tuck. The rhythm was meditative, almost hypnotic.

Each star represented a moment. A betrayal. A broken promise.

I picked up a pale blue sheet—the color of Damian's eyes on our wedding day—and began folding as I remembered our first fight about Sage. How he'd dismissed my concerns about her riding in my car. How he'd called me paranoid when I showed him her provocative photos.

"You're imagining things," he'd said, not even looking up from his laptop. "She's just being friendly."

Fold. Crease. Tuck.

Another star joined the growing collection in the glass mason jar beside me. The jar that had once held wildflowers from our honeymoon in Tuscany now held something far more bitter.

A soft pink star for the morning he'd snapped at me for asking why he was leaving for work an hour early. "I'm picking up Sage. Her car's still in the shop," he'd said, grabbing his keys without kissing me goodbye—a ritual we'd maintained for five years until three months ago.

"But the shop is in the opposite direction from our house," I'd pointed out gently. "Wouldn't it make more sense for her to take an Uber?"

His jaw had tightened. "She needs the support. She's new to the company, Celeste. Try to be more understanding."

Understanding. As if I was the unreasonable one for questioning why my husband was going twenty minutes out of his way to chauffeur another woman.

I folded another star—yellow this time, like the sundress I'd worn last week when he'd come home late again, his shirt wrinkled and smelling faintly of perfume that wasn't mine.

"Traffic was horrible," he'd lied, not meeting my eyes. "Had to drop Sage off last since she lives further out."

But I'd driven past her apartment complex the next day. It was fifteen minutes closer to his office than our house. He was dropping me off last, not her. Making me the afterthought in my own marriage.

The stars multiplied in the jar like fallen wishes. Each one a small death, a moment when the man I'd married revealed himself to be someone else entirely.

A lavender star for the evening he'd defended her when I mentioned seeing them laughing together in the company parking lot. "She's funny, Celeste. God forbid I enjoy a conversation with a colleague."

A mint green star for the night he'd worked late—again—and I'd called the office only to have security tell me the building had been empty for hours.

A coral star for the morning I'd found a bobby pin in his car that wasn't mine. "Must have fallen out of your hair," he'd said, even though I hadn't worn bobby pins in years.

My phone buzzed against the hardwood floor. A text from Damian: "Working late again tonight. Don't wait up."

I set the phone aside and reached for another sheet of paper. This one was silver—metallic and cold, like his voice had become when he spoke to me lately.

The craft room door creaked open, and I looked up to see Mila's sleepy face peering around the corner. Her dark curls were mussed from her afternoon nap, and she clutched her stuffed elephant, Patches, against her chest.

"Mommy? What are you making?"

I forced a smile, quickly sliding the jar behind me. "Just some decorations, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?"

She nodded, padding over to me in her sock feet. "They're pretty. Like the ones Daddy used to make."

My hands stilled on the paper. "Daddy made stars?"

"At your wedding," she said matter-of-factly, settling beside me. "Grandma Eleanor showed me the pictures. Daddy folded a star and put it in your bouquet. He said it was a promise."

The memory hit me like a physical blow. Our wedding day. Damian's nervous hands folding a single origami star from the program as we waited for photos. "One star for every time I hurt you," he'd whispered, slipping it among the white roses and baby's breath. "And when it reaches a hundred, I'll set you free. But that'll never happen, because I'll never hurt you that much."

I looked down at the jar beside me, counting the delicate paper stars that caught the afternoon light streaming through the window.

Ninety-seven.

Three more, and his promise would be complete.