My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Dying Son

The brownstone looked the same. Same brick. Same iron railing. Same potted boxwoods flanking the door that I'd watered every Sunday for six years.

I stood on the sidewalk with my keys in my hand. My thumb found the house key automatically. Muscle memory.

I let myself in.

The kitchen smelled like lemon polish. Someone had cleaned. Not me. I set my bag on the counter and opened the refrigerator. Harlow had left a list on a Post-it stuck to a bottle of champagne. Appetizers. Entrée. Dessert. Plating instructions. A note at the bottom in her sharp handwriting: "Our guests have taste."

I pulled out the ingredients and lined them up. Prosciutto. Figs. Goat cheese. Shrimp.

I stopped.

I opened the drawer beside the stove. The laminated allergy card was still there, tucked under the spatulas where I'd kept it for three years. James's name at the top. Shellfish in red letters. Severity: ANAPHYLAXIS.

I picked up the shrimp and put them back in the refrigerator.

I was halfway through plating the figs when Harlow came in. She wore white. Silk blouse, tailored pants, heels that made small precise clicks against the tile. She looked at the counter, then at me.

"The garnish is wrong," she said. "Our guests have taste."

She picked up one of the plates, studied it, set it back down.

"Fix it," she said, and walked out.

I fixed it.

I was arranging the corrected plates on a tray when James appeared in the doorway. He was wearing the navy blazer from the gala photo. His hair was combed. He looked smaller than I remembered.

"Hi, baby," I said.

He didn't move. His fingers twisted the edge of his blazer.

"James!" Harlow's voice came from the dining room, bright and musical. "Come help me with the flowers, sweetheart!"

He looked at me one more time. Then he turned and walked away.

I picked up the tray and carried it into the dining room.

The table was set with the good china. Candles. Flowers in a crystal vase. Harlow stood at the head of the table, adjusting a stem. James was beside her, holding a pair of scissors.

"There you are," Harlow said without looking at me. "Set those down and check the wine."

I set the tray down. I checked the wine.

Guests began arriving at six-thirty. I moved through the rooms with trays and bottles, refilling glasses, clearing plates. No one looked at me. I was furniture.

I was in the kitchen rinsing champagne flutes when my phone rang.

The nanny's name on the screen.

I dried my hands and answered.

"Sylvia—" Her voice cracked. High and thin. Wrong. "James can't breathe—his face is swelling—he's on the floor—I don't know what happened—"

I dropped the towel.

I ran.

The living room was on the second floor. I took the stairs three at a time. My shoulder hit the doorframe. I didn't feel it.

James was on the rug. On his side. The nanny was kneeling beside him, both hands pressed to her mouth. His lips were blue. His throat was swollen. His chest moved in shallow, rapid jerks.

I dropped to my knees and pulled him into my lap.

"Baby. Baby, look at me."

His eyes were open but unfocused. A thin sound came from his throat. Not a word. Just air trying to move through a space that was closing.

I looked at the coffee table. A plate of canapés. Shrimp wrapped in bacon.

My phone was in my hand. I pulled up the keypad. Pressed 9.

A shadow fell across the rug.

Corey stood in the doorway. He looked at James. He looked at me. He looked at the phone in my hand.

He stepped forward and his hand closed around my wrist.

"Don't."

I stared at him.

"It's probably not serious," he said. His voice was calm. Reasonable. The voice he used in meetings. "Calling an ambulance will terrify the clients. Harlow will handle it."

I looked down at James. His lips were darker now. Almost purple.

I looked back at Corey.

Then I wrenched my arm free with a force that pulled him forward half a step, shoved past him, and ran for the kitchen.

The EpiPen was in the drawer beside the stove. I grabbed it. I ran back upstairs.

James's eyes were starting to roll back.

I pulled the cap off the pen, pressed it against his thigh, and pushed the plunger.

The click was loud in the quiet room.

I counted to three. Pulled it away. Dropped it on the rug.

James gasped. A wet, choking sound. But a sound.

I pulled him against my chest and stood up.

Corey was still in the doorway. His mouth was open. He didn't move.

I walked past him. Down the stairs. Through the foyer. Out the front door.

The street was bright and cold. I stood on the curb with James in my arms and raised my free hand.

An Uber pulled over.

I climbed in.

"NYU Langone," I said. "Emergency entrance."

The driver looked at James in the rearview mirror. His face went pale.

"Hold on," he said, and hit the gas.