Chapter 3

I had no idea how I managed to walk out of the restroom. My legs were weak, my hands trembling, and my heart felt like someone was squeezing it tight, every beat aching.

I stood in the hallway for a while, taking deep breaths until I could barely pull myself together.

Then I walked up to Michael's office door and knocked.

"Come in," he said.

I pushed the door open. Michael was sitting behind his desk, looking over some documents. When he saw me, he gave me a gentle smile.

"You're here. Give me a minute. I'll finish this up and then we can go," he said.

'He looked so good when he smiled. His eyes relaxed, his lips curled up, and his gaze was so gentle. It was the kind of gentle smile people would see on a dream husband.

I used to believe that smile was meant just for me.

But now I realize he'd been practicing that smile in front of the mirror all along.

And when he was practicing, the person on his mind was Vanessa.

I sat on the couch, waiting for Michael, my eyes drifting around his office. On his desk was a family photo—me, him, and Oliver, all smiling happily in front of a castle.

Next to the photo was a mug that said "World's Best Husband".

It was a gift from me.

Beside the mug was a small bouquet of daisies in a clear glass bottle, the petals still glistening with water—clearly fresh, probably just replaced today.

"Got flowers in your office now?" I asked, my voice so steady that it didn't even sound like me.

Michael didn't bother to look up. "Oh, a colleague brought them over. She said she had a few extras from her flower shop."

A colleague. A flower shop.

Vanessa owned a flower studio.

So these flowers were from Vanessa. Her flowers sat on Michael's desk every single day. She changed the water and trimmed the stems, quietly marking her territory in his office.

And every time I came to his office, I'd sit right next to those flowers and even admire how pretty they looked.

Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach.

*****

That evening, we went to pick up Oliver from kindergarten together. When Oliver saw Michael, he dashed over like a little cannonball and hugged his leg. "Daddy, I got a star sticker today!"

Michael bent down, scooped Oliver up, and kissed his cheek. "That's awesome, buddy. I'll give you a reward when we get home."

He walked ahead with Oliver in his arms, while I followed behind, watching his back.

What kind of reward did he get for Oliver? A Transformer toy? A Lego set?

None of that really mattered.

What really matters was—what did he get for Vanessa's daughter?

On the way home, Michael was driving, I sat in the passenger seat, and Oliver was in the back, excitedly talking about everything that happened at kindergarten.

Michael responded to him as he drove, and every now and then, he'd reach over to gently squeeze my hand.

"What's wrong? Why so quiet today?" he asked.

"Just a little tired," I replied.

"Then turn in early tonight. I'll give you a massage."

See? So thoughtful. So perfect.

If I hadn't overheard what happened this afternoon, I'd probably be so touched that I'd post online: [Michael saw I was tired and offered me a massage. Guess I really am blessed.]

Now, it only made me sick.

*****

When we got home, Michael did his usual routine—bathed Oliver, read him a story, and tucked him in. I sat in the living room, checking his Apple Health. He'd walked 8,000 steps today—nothing out of the ordinary.

I opened his social media feed. He hardly ever posted anything. The last thing he shared was something business from three months ago.

Then I checked my own feed. My latest post was from three days ago: [Michael brought me this canvas bag back from his business trip. I love it. It's understated and practical, way more stylish than those flashy logo bags.]

The post had a photo of the canvas bag and a cup of coffee he'd bought for me.

The canvas bag.

Vanessa got a designer one, and I got the freebie.

I stared at that post for ages, and then scrolled through the comments one by one—all those admiring replies.

[Erica, your husband is seriously the best. He even brings you gifts when he's back from his business trip.]

[What a perfect husband. Where can I find one like him?]

[Ugh, I wish I had a husband who'd buy me presents, too.]

I left a sweet smile emoji under every single comment.

I tossed my phone onto the sofa and closed my eyes.

Just one thing kept echoing in my mind.

Everyone at his company knew, except for me.

What went through his colleagues' minds every time I walked into that building?

"Look, that poor woman again."

"Here she goes, showing off her happy marriage."

"She has no idea at all. How pathetic."

And me? I'd walk in with my head held high, chest out, grinning at everyone, like a peacock strutting around, showing off, not realizing everyone was staring at my ugly backside.