When His Mistress Called My Husband Her Own

Three years earlier, the world was a different place. Or maybe it was just me.

The fluorescent lights of the Silver Spoon Diner buzzed overhead, their sickly glow making everything look washed out and tired. I’d been on my feet for fourteen hours straight, my second shift bleeding into my first with no break in between. The cheap polyester uniform clung to my skin, damp with sweat and reeking of grease. My right ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, but I couldn’t afford to rest. Nia needed diapers, formula, and a warm place to sleep.

I untied my apron, the fabric stiff with dried ketchup and coffee stains, and tossed it into the grimy laundry bin. My coworker Diana—a woman with kind eyes and a mouth that never stopped moving—threw her arm around my shoulders as we walked out the back door.

“You look like hell, Alessia,” she said, not unkindly. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’re going to break.”

I gave her a small, tight smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

She rolled her eyes and peeled off a couple of twenties from her tip money, pressing them into my hand. “For Nia,” she insisted when I tried to refuse. “Buy her some of those fancy baby cereals she likes.”

The November air hit me like a slap as I stepped outside. I pulled my thin coat tighter, but it did little to ward off the biting chill. My car was in the shop—again—and the bus had stopped running an hour ago. I was looking at a twenty-minute walk home in the dark, on feet that felt like they were stuffed with broken glass.

I made it maybe half a block before my legs gave out. I sank down onto the curb, my head spinning, my vision blurring at the edges. I was so tired. So goddamn tired. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to will away the tears that threatened to spill over.

“Hey, you okay?”

The voice was warm, young, unafraid. I looked up to see a boy—no, a young man—crouching in front of me. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two, with scruffy brown hair and eyes that crinkled at the corners when he frowned. He wore a faded blue jacket with a college patch on the breast pocket.

“I’m fine,” I lied automatically, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “Just needed to sit for a minute.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t offer me platitudes or try to help me up. He just sat down beside me on the cold concrete, his shoulder brushing against mine. He pulled a wrapped sandwich out of his backpack and held it out to me, wordlessly offering me half.

I stared at the sandwich, then at him. “Why?”

He shrugged, a small, easy gesture. “Because you look like you haven’t eaten today.”

I took the sandwich. The bread was warm, the turkey still fresh. I ate in small, careful bites, savoring each mouthful. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask me questions. He just sat there, a silent, steady presence in the dark.

“Thank you,” I said when I finished, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I would have done—”

“You would have been fine,” he interrupted gently. “But I’m glad I could help.”

He helped me to my feet, his hand warm and strong, and waited while I gathered my things. Then, without another word, he walked with me the ten blocks to my apartment, his quiet presence keeping the shadows at bay.

At my door, I turned to him. “What’s your name?”

“Coleson,” he said, smiling. “Coleson Roberts. I’m a student over at the university. I was just heading home when I saw you.”

I clutched my bag tighter, my guard rising. “What do you want in return?”

He laughed, a sound like sunlight. “Nothing. I promise. I just... couldn’t leave you there.”

It was such a simple thing. Such a small kindness. And it nearly broke me all over again.