My Husband Chose His Mistress

Driving back home, tears blurred my vision and streamed down my face.

Haunting images raced through my mind: Skyla's blood-soaked body, my mother's departure, and Zuri Morgan’s triumphant smirk.

I felt like a volcano on the brink of eruption, pressure building inside me. Once home, I flung the birthday gift I had prepared for Princeton onto the floor, watching it shatter into pieces.

Anger surged through me, planting seeds of resentment deep in my heart. The wedding photo on the wall, where I seemed to be the only one smiling, mocked my failures and made me feel utterly foolish.

I grabbed a kitchen knife and thrust it down, the sharp blade slicing between us.

It tore everything apart, mirroring how our relationship had become irreparably shattered. Madness swept over me, and I dragged the knife across my arm with force.

Crimson drops splattered onto the floor, a sharp pain shooting through me, but it still felt insufficient.

As I contemplated cutting deeper, my gaze fell upon Skyla's photograph, his joyful smile beaming back at me.

In that moment, my heart wavered, my hand trembling with indecision over whether to continue or to let go.

In a haze, I imagined Skyla running towards me, arms wide open, sweetly calling for his mom.

Ultimately, I chose to set the knife down.

Skyla was always so perceptive; from the moment he joined our family, he sensed the tension between Princeton and me.

Even at his young age, he tried to mend our relationship, never giving up, even when faced with Princeton's cold demeanor.

Looking at Skyla’s photo, the turmoil within me finally settled.

Self-harm offered no relief, only leaving a scar that would never truly heal.