When My Husband Married His Mistress Without Divorcing Me

I didn't make breakfast the next morning. It was strange, not doing it. The kitchen felt different — like a stage after the actors have gone home. I stood at the window with my coffee, still too hot, and watched the morning light hit the buildings across the street. The coffee was black. I'd forgotten to add sugar. I didn't care.

Thomas came downstairs at seven-fifteen, his hair still wet from the shower. He was wearing one black sock and one blue one. He looked at me like I'd rearranged the furniture.

"Where's my other black sock?" he asked. Not a question, really. An accusation.

I didn't answer.

He looked at me again, harder this time. "The housekeeper must have mixed them up," he muttered, and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. He took one bite, frowned, and put it back. "These are mealy," he said, and left.

Autumn came through twenty minutes later. She opened the refrigerator and stood there, staring inside. She reached for the milk, then stopped. She looked at me over the open fridge door.

"It feels weird in here," she said. "Did you move something?"

I hadn't moved anything. I hadn't done the shopping. I hadn't thrown out the old food or wiped the shelves or made the space feel like a home instead of a grocery store. I hadn't done any of it.

"No," I said.

She closed the fridge and left.

Damon came down at eight. He was already dressed, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"You're upset," he said. Not a question.

I didn't answer.

He straightened his watch on the counter — two inches to the right — and picked up his briefcase. "You'll feel better by dinner," he said, and kissed the air somewhere near my cheek.

I went to Columbia that afternoon. I taught my seminar on Renaissance portraiture. Twenty-three students. They listened. They always listened. I talked about how the great masters would hide messages in their work — symbols only the subject would understand. A book on a shelf. A flower in the background. A ring on a finger.

I thought about my mother's ring, sitting in a pawnshop for three months until Damon's first check cleared. I thought about how he never asked where it went. I thought about how I told him anyway.

I came home at five. The house was quiet. I went to my closet and pulled out a suitcase. I packed it slowly. Two sweaters. Three pairs of pants. The blue dress from the restaurant. I didn't know why I was packing. I just knew I was.

I slid the suitcase behind the locked box and closed the closet door.

Three days later, Chelsea came for dinner. She brought wine — expensive, from a vineyard in France that Damon had invested in. She set it on the counter like she owned the place. She'd been doing that for twenty-five years.

We sat at the table. Thomas was there. Autumn was there. Damon was there. I was there. Chelsea raised her glass.

"To new beginnings," she said.

I didn't raise my glass.

Midway through the main course, Chelsea pressed her hand to her chest. Her face went pale. She let her wine glass tip, just slightly, and it spilled across the white tablecloth like blood.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just... my heart... it's been so strange lately. The doctor said..."

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

Damon was out of his chair in a second. He guided her to the sofa in the living room. His hand was on her back, the way it used to be on mine. Thomas followed, concerned. Autumn followed, filming.

I stayed at the table.

Damon came back five minutes later. His face was tight.

"Apologize," he said.

I looked at him.

"Apologize to her," he said. "This isn't like you, Elora. I don't know what's gotten into you lately. You're becoming someone I don't recognize."

It was the first time he'd looked directly at me in a week.

I said nothing.

The next Sunday, my phone rang. Autumn.

"Mother," she said. "Chelsea's gallery preview is Friday. We need you to serve drinks. You're good at that sort of thing."

For the first time in twenty-five years, I said no.

The silence lasted four seconds. I counted them.

"You're embarrassing yourself, Mother," Autumn said. Her voice was cold. Sharp. "We don't need you. Chelsea can find someone who actually wants to help."

She hung up.

I stood at the kitchen window for a long time. Then I opened a drawer and found, under the takeout menus, one of my old sketchbooks. I hadn't drawn in it for twenty-five years. I closed the drawer without taking it out.