21/07/2025
Mark and I had been married for a decade, with two kids, a mortgage, and what I thought was a stable life. Sure, Mark never helped out around the house — I was the one juggling work, the kids, cooking, cleaning, everything. But I convinced myself,
“It’s okay. We’re a team.”
Except Mark was playing on a different team.
Last week, I came home from a long grocery run. My arms were full of bags, I heard voices on the porch — Mark and Emma, our 25-year-old neighbor’s daughter. They were laughing, and my name came up. Something in my gut told me to hide and listen.
“I can’t believe she hasn’t figured it out yet,” Emma laughed.
Mark chuckled. “She’s so wrapped up with the kids and housework. She doesn’t even look like a woman anymore. You’re so much better, my princess.”
Then they kissed.
I stood there frozen, clutching the grocery bags, a storm of emotions swirling inside me—anger, humiliation—but somehow, I remained calm. I didn’t say a word to them. Instead, I quietly slipped in through the back door and started strategizing.
The next morning, I kissed Mark goodbye with a sweet smile and drove straight to Emma’s house. When she opened the door, I greeted her warmly. “Emma, I could use your expertise. Would you be able to stop by tomorrow evening? I’m thinking about redecorating the living room, and I know you’ve studied design.”
She smiled, completely oblivious. “Of course! What time should I come over?”
I returned her smile, masking my true intentions. “Seven works perfectly.”
She had no idea what was coming her way.
The next evening, Emma arrived looking polished. I welcomed her graciously and invited her in.
As I guided her through the house, I stopped at different spots, explaining each one with purpose.
“Here’s the dishwasher. You’ll need to make sure it’s loaded and run every night—Mark never bothers with it. The kids’ laundry goes in this room, but please separate the colors and whites because their skin can react badly to certain detergents.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed, unsure of how to respond.
“Oh, and here’s the schedule for all their after-school activities,” I continued, handing her a color-coded chart. “Tuesdays and Thursdays are pick-up days, but Wednesdays are your free days to run errands. I’ve also written down the plumber, electrician, and pediatrician’s contact info, just in case you need it.”
Her confident smile began to crumble, replaced by a pale, uneasy expression.
“And this,” I said, leading her into the kitchen where the aroma of roast chicken filled the air, “is where you’ll handle all the cooking. Trust me, there’s a lot to keep up with—breakfasts, packed lunches for school and work, snacks, dinners, desserts. Mark prefers his steak medium-rare, by the way, but the kids? They’ll only eat it if it’s cooked so thoroughly it’s practically a rock.”
She gasped, her composure shattering completely.
“And don’t expect Mark to say thank you,” I added, my tone light but pointed. “Gratitude isn’t his strong suit. The kids are picky eaters, but I’m sure you’ll manage to figure it all out eventually.”
Just then, Mark walked in. The moment he saw us, his face went pale.
“Lex, what’s going on?” he asked, his voice tight and trembling...
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