Sending My Unfaithful Husband Back to the Gutter

The New Year dawned with a document I never asked for, titled: Preston and My Year-End Review. It detailed a transactional accounting of my life, written in neat, mocking bullet points: First: My KPI for sleeping with your husband this year was 150 times. Target: Exceeded. Second: Securing a villa and luxury vehicle from your husband. Target: Achieved. Third: Getting your son to call me ‘Mom’ ten times a day. Target: Exceeded. Fourth: Brave enough to stand before you and fight for my happiness. Target: Achieved. Mrs. Miles, I tend to your husband’s needs and nurture your son. Do I get a bonus, or will you gracefully step down? Attached was a photo. A nauseating counterfeit of a family portrait. Preston had his arm slung possessively around her waist, and my seven-year-old son, Frank, was standing in front of them, grinning. The woman was Dahlia Croft, Frank’s private piano instructor. Preston Miles walked in just as I was finishing the report. He saw the papers in my hand and went rigid. “Don’t go after her, Evie,” he said, his voice instantly tight with panic. “I was the one who initiated it. She’s innocent in this. Whatever you need to do to me, whatever compensation you want, I’ll give it to you.” The blood drained from my body, leaving me ice cold. I simply stared into his eyes. “I just want you to go back to who you were.” I want you to be the hungry, grateful boy who had nothing but me. The one who had no idea what it felt like to be loved. He misinterpreted my silence, letting out a visible sigh of relief. “Even with Dahlia, I would never neglect you.”

He paused, then added, as if sharing a trivial scheduling conflict, “Since you know about Dahlia and me now, why don’t we just have her join us for the holidays this year?” The sheer audacity of his request made my mind go numb. Fifteen years. Was this the man I had loved for fifteen years? How could he press his advantage this far? My shock registered to him as gentle assent. He raised a hand, intending to give me the same patronizing, affectionate stroke on the head he used to. I flinched, stepping back. The corners of my eyes stung, but I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of emotion. “Do whatever you want. I have a crucial experiment scheduled for the break.” And every holiday after this one, both father and son will be absent from my life. Outwardly, I was composed, rational. Inside, my heart had been pulverized into pieces too fine to ever be reassembled. I turned and walked toward the stairs. Preston’s whine followed me up the polished marble steps, laced with a familiar, sour resentment. “It’s always the lab first, isn’t it? I’m always second to your test tubes.” Then his voice sharpened, adopting a forced, strained humor as he addressed my retreating back. “Honey, are you actually hoping I cheat on you?” I stopped, looking back at him. He was beaming, waiting for my reaction, then added, “I thought you’d lose it. I never expected you to still be thinking about your experiments at a time like this.” “If I asked you to cut her off, for good,” I asked him, my voice flat, “could you do it?” His smile vanished, replaced by an expression of grim resolve. “You want the truth, or the lie?” “The truth.” He didn’t hesitate. “I can’t. Just like you can’t give up your research.” He paused again, his expression softening into one of feigned regret. “If you hadn’t poured every ounce of yourself into the lab, neglecting my needs, we never would have needed Dahlia.” Ah. So my dedication was the real affair. My tireless nights in the lab, developing the proprietary compounds that made his pharmaceutical company the titan it is today, was my fault. My success, my labor, my mistake. He has forgotten the road we traveled. Then I will personally escort him back to the gutter he crawled out of. I immediately drafted a text to my attorney: “I need divorce papers ready immediately. Furthermore, I am revoking Preston Miles’s company’s use of all my patents and research findings. Effective immediately.” He’d become soft, complacent. Good times can blind a man. Preston’s phone rang. Even though he lowered his voice, I recognized the distinct sound of Dahlia Croft’s concerned cooing. “It’s fine, baby, she didn’t make a scene,” he was whispering. “Her head’s buried so deep in the lab she doesn’t have the energy to care about me. No, don’t send me anything like that again. Yes, you’ll spend the holidays here. Whatever you want. From the living room to the bedroom, consider it done.” Every word was a perfectly aimed dagger, yet I didn’t cry. My hands were shaking. My throat was tight, suffocating. My stomach churned with nausea, the only physical signs of the sheer, inhuman psychological torture I was enduring. My attorney texted back: “I need seven business days, Evie. Just give me a little time.” Seven days. Normally, in the white noise of the lab, seven days flashed by. Now, I felt like I was serving seven years. I looked at my hands—bleached by endless cleaning, marked by minor chemical burns—and my strained, short-sighted eyes, and the permanent half-tinnitus from years of high-frequency equipment. All my sacrifice, all my desperate labor, was now nothing but a sick joke. I remembered ten years ago, when the company was new. Preston was so frantic about not having proprietary compounds to manufacture that his hair began to grey overnight. I, a pharma research graduate, had locked myself away. Years of relentless, punishing work were what gave him the company he had today. He used to call me his Aorta. His most valuable, irreplaceable lifeline. How hilarious. Since he no longer cherished the hard-won prosperity, I would simply sever the artery. Late that night, I went to the lab and quietly dissolved all my ongoing projects. The sterile silence of the empty space was heavy with a complex, dizzying mix of emotions. Ding-dong. In the absolute quiet, the ping of my phone was deafeningly sharp. It was Dahlia. Another taunt. The picture showed her and Preston, bare-shouldered in bed, Preston fast asleep beside her. “Mrs. Miles, I took care of your husband again.” “Preston told me you support us. Can you send me a little bonus, sister?” “Serving a man is hard work. Preston acts like he’s never seen a woman before.” “You have no idea how rough he is with me.” “I’m working hard, sister. Surely you can spare a New Year’s bonus.” A violent surge of heat and nausea hit me. I switched to my secondary burner phone and discreetly video-recorded the evidence, sending it immediately to my lawyer. My silence, to Dahlia, read as total weakness. The next day, my son, Frank Miles, was admitted to the hospital with a fever. When I arrived, Dahlia was spoon-feeding him a bowl of steaming porridge. “There you go, sweet boy. You have to eat something, even if you’re not hungry. That’s how you get better fast.” Preston was standing to the side, hands shoved casually into his pockets, his gaze soft and indulgent as it drifted from Dahlia to Frank. “See? Your Mom takes such good care of you.” My heart twisted into a Gordian knot. We weren’t even divorced, and he was allowing our son to call this woman ‘Mom.’ “Yeah, Mom loves me the best!” Frank beamed with happiness. His voice was the final, fatal blow. My blood froze. Hearing my son call Dahlia ‘Mom’ brought my breathing to a dead stop. Dahlia saw me. Her eyes flickered with unconcealed victory, but her tone was sickeningly sweet and natural. “Evie’s here, big sister. Why don’t you feed Frank now?” Frank didn’t spare me a glance. He clung to Dahlia. “No, I want you to feed me, Mommy. I like it when you do it.” He glanced at me, and his tone shifted to one of childish dismissal. “That Mom just does experiments. She doesn’t know how to take care of anyone. Daddy and I both like you, Mommy.” My face hardened. I stared at Frank. “What did you call her?” Dahlia stepped in, feigning understanding to twist the knife. “Evie, please don’t be hard on him. He’s just a six-year-old boy. It’s just a word, a silly mistake. Don’t worry about it.” Preston moved between Frank and me, an oily peacemaker. “He’s sick, Evie. Don’t make him feel worse.” He reached for my back, attempting to steer me out of the room. “Go back to the lab, alright? Dahlia has him covered. Don’t worry.” A wave of pure disgust rose in my stomach. I recoiled, shoving his arm away. “Don’t touch me.” He was stunned. My reaction was unusual; the even-keeled, perpetually rational Evie rarely showed anger. Frank, startled by the tension, burst into tears. Dahlia played the martyred saint. “Evie, you’re scaring Frank. If you’re upset, take it out on me, not the child. He’s innocent, please don’t hurt him.” A single, burning thought possessed me. I looked at the sobbing Frank and asked, “Who are you calling Mom?” I braced myself. If he said he wouldn’t call Dahlia that again, I would find a way to forgive him, to keep him. Instead, Frank wailed, pointing his finger in accusation. “You’re a Mom, and Dahlia-Mommy is a Mom! I like her! She’s nice and takes care of me and teaches me piano. You don’t! You only care about your experiments! This Mommy is way better than you!” I was struck by a lightning bolt. Tears, hot and heavy, escaped without permission. Preston dragged me out into the hallway, his voice a harsh hiss. “What is wrong with you, taking your anger out on a child? He doesn’t know any better! You’re not needed here. Go do your experiments!” He turned, went back into the room, and locked the door behind him to prevent me from causing any more ‘trouble.’ That evening, my mother-in-law, Eleanor Miles, came to ‘reason’ with me. “Evie, you’re a wonderful woman and a good daughter-in-law. I’ve always said so.” She took my hand and patted it gently, her voice softening into a conspiratorial tone. “Men, dear, they’re just… wired differently. Dahlia can take care of him, and Frank, too. If you’d just let go of your jealousy, you’d realize this is actually a wonderful thing.” She smiled brightly. “You don’t have to service your husband, you don’t have to mother your son. You can devote yourself entirely to your research. What could be better?” My heart was frozen solid, immune to her toxic logic. I withdrew my hand quietly. “Mhm. I won’t interfere anymore.” Her eyes lit up with triumph. She thought she had won me over. “Wonderful! I’ll have the maid clean out the bedroom next to yours for Dahlia.” She chattered on, oblivious. “She’ll move in soon, which is great for Frank’s piano, and it helps you by taking care of those two. It’ll be nice to have someone to shop with.” Seeing my continued silence, she took it as tacit agreement. Beaming, she clapped me on the back. “I knew it! You’re a sensible girl, Evie.” She immediately called Dahlia, not bothering to lower her voice. “Dahlia, dear, you can move in tonight. The room is ready. It’s almost Christmas, and the sooner you move in, the sooner the house will feel warm and festive! And now I’ll have someone to keep me company!” When Preston brought Dahlia home, I was on my way out. Seeing my grim face, Dahlia feigned distress. “Evie, you look upset. Maybe I shouldn’t move in?” I met her eyes, my expression utterly devoid of warmth. “This is the Miles home. You can stay as long as you like. I won’t interfere.” I quickened my pace. Preston rushed after me, catching my wrist. “Are you really okay with this? If you’re not, I can get a place for Dahlia outside.” I pulled my hand free. My heart felt like cold ash, but my voice was steady. “I just have work to handle. And no, I genuinely don’t care about you and Dahlia.” He sighed, relieved, his voice suddenly affectionate. “Good. Go handle your work, but call me when you’re done. I’ll come get you.” He actually believes he’s the master of compromise. I left the Miles house and never returned. On the twenty-sixth of December, Preston’s company held its annual holiday gala. He had notified everyone but me. By chance, I was driving past the venue on my way to an appointment. I stopped. I saw Preston on the stage, holding Dahlia’s hand, with Frank holding hers, too. They looked every bit the picture-perfect family as they spoke to the employees. Preston held the microphone, his voice ringing with genuine, triumphant pride. “This year, the company and I personally have gained so much.” He beamed. “I want to thank my wife, who has given me so much support and warmth.” My eyes felt as though they were being stabbed with needles. Even though my heart was dead, the sight brought a fresh wave of pain. She was his wife? She gave him support? The words were a cascade of thick, painful slaps across my face. The microphone was handed to Frank. My son, innocent and happy, looked up at Dahlia. “The person I thank the most is also my Mom,” he said sweetly. “Thank you for giving me so much love. I love you, Mom.” He wrapped his arms around Dahlia in a hug. The room erupted in applause, the sound of people declaring them the “perfect family” washing over the room like boiling water. Only Dahlia’s eyes, scanning the crowd, found me. I turned to leave the venue. She ran after me, stopping me near the exit. “Evelyn George,” she challenged. “You have a remarkable amount of self-control. This? And you won’t even crash the party?” She sneered. “I know you won’t make a scene because you’re terrified of losing the Miles name and your privileged life. You think you can keep the title of ‘Mrs. Miles’ if you just play nice?” I let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” She was certain of her victory, scoffing at me. “We will! Your husband and your son have just announced my identity to the world! Tell me, what do you have left to fight me with?” I ignored her, walking away quickly. She will soon learn that what she fought so hard to possess is nothing but sinking mud. On Christmas Eve, the Miles house was lavishly decorated and bursting with activity. Every year, I personally cooked the Christmas feast. Preston finally remembered to call me. He called several times, but I didn’t answer. A strange, anxious tremor ran through him. Dahlia, ever the helpful understudy, comforted him. “Darling, it’s my first Christmas in our home. Let me cook the feast. Evie must be swamped in the lab. After I finish, you can try calling her again.” Preston tried to keep his composure, but his anxiety was reaching a fever pitch. When Dahlia finished the elaborate meal, he still hadn’t reached me. The housekeeper delivered a package addressed to him. “From the Madam.” Preston tore open the package. The words DIVORCE AGREEMENT hit him with the force of a thousand volts. Just then, his assistant called, voice frantic. “Mr. Miles, we have a problem. Mrs. Miles has revoked all usage rights to her patents. Without those patents, we have zero ability to operate the company.”