Mark and I had been married for ten years, with two kids and a life that I thought was solid. Sure, Mark didn’t help much around the house, but I told myself we were a team. That was until I overheard him talking with Emma, our neighbor’s 25-year-old daughter, outside.
“I can’t believe she hasn’t figured it out yet,” Emma said, laughing. “She’s so busy with the kids. She’s let herself go. She doesn’t even look like a woman anymore, nothing compared to you.”
Then they kissed.
My heart sank. But instead of confronting them right away, I went inside, carried the groceries, and started plotting. The next morning, I made Mark a nice breakfast, kissed him goodbye, and walked next door to Emma’s house.
“Hi, Emma! I was wondering if you could come over tomorrow evening to help me redecorate the living room?” I asked, feigning warmth.
She agreed, and the next evening, she arrived, dressed to impress. But instead of heading straight to the living room, I gave her a tour of the house.
“This is the dishwasher—you’ll need to load it every night because Mark doesn’t,” I explained. “Here’s the kids’ laundry. Be sure to separate it. They’re picky. Also, here’s their after-school schedule—don’t forget to pick them up on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
Her smile faded as I went on, detailing the endless house responsibilities she’d now inherit. When I led her to the kitchen, I said, “Mark likes his steak medium-rare, but the kids prefer it well-done.”
Just as Emma looked like she was about to bolt, Mark walked in and froze. I smiled brightly. “I’m showing Emma how to run the house since you think I’ve let myself go. I figured it’s time to find someone who sees me as a ‘princess.’ Emma, you’re in charge now. Good luck!”
Before they could react, there was a knock on the door. It was Emma’s parents, who often babysat my kids. “Thanks for raising such a helpful daughter,” I said sweetly, as Emma’s father stared in disbelief.
Mark tried to shift the blame. “Lexie, Emma came onto me!”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you’re not responsible for sneaking around with a 25-year-old while insulting your wife?”
Emma’s mom, confused, asked her daughter to explain, but Emma stammered. Her father, furious, told them both to leave.
Once they were gone, Mark pleaded, “Lexie, please, we’ve been together so long… you owe me a conversation.”
“I’ll talk, don’t worry,” I said, pulling the roast chicken from the oven. “My lawyer will call you tomorrow. But for now, pack your bags and leave.”
A week later, I heard Emma had dumped Mark. “It was fun while it lasted, but I didn’t sign up to play mom.”
Two weeks later, Mark returned, flowers in hand. “Please, Lexie, I miss you, the kids, our family.”
“I don’t care, Mark!” I snapped. “Now, if you don’t have anything productive to do here, leave. The kids are at a playdate.”