My husband’s mistress rang our doorbell on Saturday afternoon and, when I opened it, she handed me her coat and said, “Tell Stephen I’m here.”
Because she thought I was the helper and his wife of 12 years.
I stood there with her expensive coat in my hands while she walked confidently into my house as if she owned it. She was blonde, maybe twenty five, wearing a dress that clearly cost more than most people paid for rent in a month.
She glanced around the hallway with a critical expression and said, “This place really needs a makeover, I’ll talk to Stephen about it.”
Stephen Walker was my husband, or at least he still was at that moment, the man I had spent more than a decade building a life with while working endless hours so he could become a doctor.
“Where is Stephen?” she asked without even looking at me.
“He isn’t here,” I answered calmly.
“Well when will he be back, because I do not have all day,” she replied with impatience.
“Who are you?” I asked even though the answer was already forming in my mind.
She smiled slightly and said, “I’m Amber, Stephen’s girlfriend, and you must be the maid or house assistant or something like that.”
She laughed lightly as if the situation amused her.
“Well of course you are, but Stephen usually hires staff who dress a little better than this, are you new here?”
In my own home, wearing jeans and a university sweatshirt on a quiet Saturday afternoon, I apparently looked like household help.
“I have been here twelve years,” I said slowly, “twelve years, Stephen has only been here five.”
