Chapter 2

It was early morning when I got home.

The place was quiet. Charles hadn't come back yet.

That was fine by me.

I walked into our bedroom. His side of the closet was neat as always.

His ties lined up from light to dark by color. His shirts were pressed flat, not a single wrinkle in sight.

I'd been the one taking care of all this for years.

I used to think this was love—steady, quiet devotion.

I pulled open the drawer of the nightstand. Inside was a small wooden box.

When I opened it, I found the very first gift Charles ever gave me after we got married.

It was a ring woven from foxtail grass.

He'd said, "Sue, when I'm rich, I'll buy you the biggest diamond in the world."

Later, he really did buy me plenty of expensive jewelry, but I never wore any of it. I just kept this old, dried-up grass ring.

I took it out and let it rest in my palm.

It was so light, as if it would fall apart if I so much as breathed on it.

It felt just like the love we'd shared for ten years.

I grabbed the spare phone we kept at home and slipped in a fresh SIM card.

Then I used the new number to set up a new WhatsApp account. For the profile photo, I chose a flower in bloom, one that gave off a harmless, cheerful vibe.

After that, I started typing.

Me: [Mr. Linford, sorry to bother you while you're busy. I'm a resident of Oakridge County. I recently came across some inappropriate photos of your daughter, Ms. Mia Linford, circulating online. It doesn't look good, especially the part where she's involved with a married man.

[It's really hurting the image of Oakridge County. As her father, I thought you should know. Maybe have a talk with your family about boundaries and values.]

I attached the clear photo taken in bed and sent the message straight to the director of RedStar Cement Company.

After mulling it over, I realized that was still not enough.

I looked up the manager, the safety officer, and several team leaders who worked under John and sent the message to every one of them.

Then I moved on to Clara Linford.

Me: [Hey, Mrs. Linford. Hey, ladies. I'm a neighborhood volunteer. You can call me Lily. Lately, we've been encouraging positive energy in our community, but I've noticed some worrying behavior. A young woman is getting involved with a married man and posting shameless photos online.

[For the sake of our community's reputation, I hope we can all keep an eye on our kids. I'm sharing these photos as a reminder. Please don't let your children go down the same path.]

I dropped the photos into the Stayin' Happy Dance Crew group chat, which had over two hundred members.

This group chat was way more active than the one at RedStar Cement Company.

As soon as I sent the message, dozens of replies started flooding in.

[Oh my! Isn't that Mia, Clara's daughter?]

"Whoa! Who's that guy? He doesn't look like he's from around here."

[Shameless! What a disgrace to the Linford family!]

[Clara's always bragging about how her daughter's got a great job in the city and snagged a rich husband. Turns out she's just a homewrecker.]

I watched the insults scroll across my screen, my face completely blank. It was like reading a cold pathology report.

The cancer had already spread. Cutting it out was the only option left.

What was spreading was the rot in my marriage with Charles.

Mia was just the most obvious, urgent tumor that needed to be removed first.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Charles.

It read: [Honey, something urgent came up at work last night, so I had to pull an all-nighter. Just finished and I'm on my way home now. Really craving your risotto.]

He even tacked on a kissy emoji at the end.

He always did this.

He'd sneak around behind my back and then come home without a care in the world, still expecting me to pamper him as usual.

He probably thought I'd always be the wife who had his food ready, waiting for him at the door.

I simply replied: [Get lost.]

Then I blocked him.

I walked into the kitchen and started making risotto, taking my time with every step.

The arborio rice had to be rinsed and lightly toasted, the stock kept warm, and the vegetables diced fine, ready to fold in.

Charles was the one who taught me all this. He always said that was what gave the risotto its soul.

I used to believe that with all my heart.

Now, all I wanted was to dump this pot of risotto right in his lying face.

The risotto bubbled and popped, filling the room with its scent.

I scooped a plate for myself and sipped it alone.

It tasted great.

But my stomach felt frozen. No matter how hot the risotto was, it couldn't melt the chill inside.

I thought back to the first time Charles brought me home to meet his parents.

They picked me apart. After all, I was just a city girl who'd never done any farm work.

At dinner, his mom pointed at the spread and, with that sarcastic edge in her voice, said, "Charles only likes home-cooked meals. City girls? They don't really know how to take care of a man."

That night, Charles hugged me out in the yard and said, "Sue, don't be upset. I'll be the one cooking for you, for the rest of our lives."

I believed him.

But after ten years of marriage, I could count on one hand the number of times he'd actually cooked for me.

Most days, I'd drag myself home from work, dead tired, and still make him dinner like it was my job.

I finished the last of my risotto and scrubbed the plate spotless.

Then I stepped outside and made my way to a copy shop.