Chapter 1: The Day My Marriage Ended

After twelve years of marriage, my husband—who pulls in tens of millions—fell for the new receptionist at his company.

The words echo in my head, hollow as a church bell tolling on a Sunday I want to forget. Sometimes I perch at the kitchen counter, coffee gone cold in my hand, catching my reflection in the oven door: same face, same woman, but everything’s changed.

She’s almost forty, not what you’d call a head-turner, but somehow in six months, she gave my husband something I apparently never could.

I keep turning this over like a smooth stone in my palm. Some days it makes me laugh; other days, I want to scream. I run my fingertips along the edge of my vanity mirror, searching for what he sees—what I must’ve missed all these years. In the Midwest, we say don’t judge a book by its cover, but I wonder if I ever even bothered to read the dust jacket.

Derek’s words were tired when he finally spoke:

"If we get divorced, you can have the house and the car. Rachel, can you just let me go?"

He said my name like it was already a memory, like he was letting go before I even had the chance. His jaw was tight; he wouldn’t meet my eyes. The kitchen clock ticked too loud in the thick, stale air.

I stared down at the marble, forcing my voice not to shake. "Okay," I managed, my lips barely moving. My heart was a fist pounding against my ribs. I wondered if he could hear the panic in my silence.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something. But the words came out small and steady, as if I’d rehearsed them a thousand times. My voice barely made it across the kitchen island.

Then I bought a calendar from Target and circled today’s date.

Divorce countdown: 30 days.

1

When I slid the divorce agreement in front of Derek, only forty minutes had passed since he confessed his affair and asked for a divorce.

The paper was crisp and thick, the kind you’d expect to sign at a mortgage closing or when you’re refinancing your dreams. My hands barely shook as I set it between us, the ink still drying. My wedding ring caught the kitchen light—a sharp, sudden glint that made me want to rip it off then and there.

According to the agreement, I’d get the house, the car, and custody of our child. He’d give me three million as a lump sum for compensation and child support. After that, my child and I would be ghosts in his world.

I’d copied every word from a template I found online, tweaking the details as I sipped lukewarm Diet Coke and tried not to cry. Three million was more than most people saw in a lifetime, but it felt small compared to the betrayal. Would the lawyers say I was being too generous—or not generous enough?

At that moment, Derek was on a conference call. He glanced down, saw the words on the divorce agreement, and his expression shifted. He nodded, signaling he got it.

He looked at me with resignation—like a teenager caught sneaking out after curfew. Behind him, his phone’s blinking lights cast ghostly patterns on the wall. I could almost hear his colleagues’ voices through the speaker, all business as usual, while my world turned upside down.

I left the room.

I walked down the hall, memorizing the familiar creak of the floorboards, the faint lemon cleaner I always used on Fridays. Derek’s muffled voice drifted through his office door. I pressed my palm to the cool paint for a second, then let go.

To save us both time, I packed all of Derek’s clothes and personal items for him—three full suitcases. Worried I’d forget something, I even dug out his childhood photos from the attic.

I made neat stacks of his shirts, rolled his ties just the way he liked, and tucked a note with his old Little League photo between his sweaters. The attic was cold and smelled of cedar chips. I paused by his high school yearbook, flipping to the page where he’d written, “Everything’s possible.” For a minute, my chest tightened, but I kept going.

Finally, I noticed our wedding photo in the corner. In the picture, Derek is handsome, and I’m smiling sweetly. We’re embracing in the sunlight, carefree and happy.

The frame felt heavier than I remembered. The sunlit field in the background looked impossibly golden. I ran my thumb over the glass, over the ghost of that old happiness, and felt a lump rise in my throat. For a moment, I pressed the picture to my chest, then set it down gently on the coffee table, like a fragile relic. I remembered the way he’d lift me off my feet in that field, spinning me until I was dizzy with laughter. How did we end up here—strangers divided by a table and a pile of suitcases?

Back then, he would always hold me close and whisper, "Babe, I love you so much. I’m so lucky to have married you."

Sometimes I could still feel his arms around me, his breath warm on my ear. Those words, once so easy, now felt like a foreign language. I wondered if he even remembered saying them, or if they’d faded for him as quickly as an old Facebook status.

I met Derek in college. When I first met him, he was just a broke guy in worn-out sneakers. A lot of people were interested in me then, but I fell for Derek at first sight. He was calm, kind, and good-looking. To me, he had countless virtues.

I remember the first time I saw him outside the Student Union—his shoelaces trailing, his hair a mess, eyes lit up with ideas about everything from baseball to philosophy. He’d offer me half of his peanut butter sandwich, not caring that he only had three bucks in his bank account. My friends called me crazy, but I just saw something in him that made me feel alive.

After graduation, we naturally got married, and he started a company with friends. When I got pregnant, I became a full-time stay-at-home mom. I devoted myself to caring for Derek, our family, and our child.

Those early years felt like building a fort together—stacking up hope, laughter, the occasional argument. I painted the nursery pale yellow and read every baby book. Derek worked late, came home with takeout, and would fall asleep with our baby on his chest. I thought we were unstoppable.

As the business grew, Derek’s social obligations increased—more business dinners and events. Amid the busy, trivial days, I still made time to work out, learn new makeup techniques, and keep myself well-dressed.

I’d head to the gym after school drop-off, scrolling Instagram for new contour tricks, determined to be the woman who never let herself go. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the grocery store mirror and smile, proud of the woman I’d managed to remain.

Derek did his part, too. No matter how busy he was, when he came home, he would help take care of our child and cook. He even helped me deal with my mother-in-law.

I always appreciated that about him. He never left me alone to handle the messes—whether it was a stubborn spaghetti stain on the carpet or his mom’s passive-aggressive comments about my cooking. Even on the rough days, we’d collapse on the couch, trading stories until we both fell asleep.

To outsiders, we were the model couple, the perfect family.

People at church would nudge each other and whisper, “That’s what marriage should look like.” At PTA meetings, I’d get compliments on how involved Derek was. We were the sort of couple who made people believe in happy endings—until we weren’t.

I don’t know when it started, but Derek began moving meetings to the evenings. Sometimes, when he was busy, he wouldn’t come home all night. Friends joked with me to keep an eye on him. I always said it would never happen, but deep down, I worried.

I started noticing the little things: the way his phone never left his side, how he’d stay out late and smell faintly of hotel shampoo. I’d laugh off my friends’ teasing, but at night, the doubts crept in, quiet as moths bumping against the porch light.

A few times, I brought late-night snacks to Derek and his colleagues. Nothing seemed unusual—a group of people in a meeting, and that woman just at the front desk.

I’d wave hello, balancing a tray of sandwiches and chips, feeling like the supportive wife in a sitcom. The office was always buzzing, and Linda would greet me with her gentle voice, offering a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

Her name is Linda Moore, about forty, not tall, slender, with short hair. She looks ordinary, but her voice is gentle—softer than her appearance suggests. She smiled and greeted me.

Sometimes, I’d wonder if she noticed the tremor in my voice or the way I clutched my purse just a little too tightly. She wore sensible flats and always smelled faintly of vanilla, like she’d just baked something.

All these years, I’d imagined this day might come. I thought maybe it would be the pretty secretary, a lively college student, or a capable female executive. I just never thought it would be the receptionist.

You grow up hearing stories about the other woman—never thinking she’ll be the one who fills your husband’s coffee mug and quietly rearranges the mail. I expected drama, lipstick on the collar, not Tupperware lunches and polite small talk.

I heard she was previously married, her husband cheated, and they divorced. This was her first job after the divorce, and she cherished it deeply. She arrived early for work, remembered everyone’s little habits, and sometimes baked cookies. Some colleagues even ordered lunch from her for convenience.

I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Maybe that’s why I never saw it coming. She seemed grateful just to have a place to belong, moving with a kind of careful optimism. I’d hear stories about her homemade brownies, and once, she brought me a recipe for banana bread, scribbled in looping handwriting.

When I found out, I told Derek she was working hard and asked him to look after her. Derek was always indifferent:

"The office isn’t a place for sentiment. I’ve already discouraged transactions outside of work."

Back then, I even teased Derek for being a cold boss. Now, thinking back, maybe he felt sorry for Linda, who had to go home and make takeout for colleagues after work.

I teased him that he’d end up on a Reddit thread about terrible managers. He just shrugged, but looking back, I wonder if there was a flicker of guilt beneath his businesslike calm. Maybe I missed it. Maybe I didn’t want to see it.

As for why Derek chose today to mention divorce—

It was just because, in the morning, I made him a bowl of hangover soup as usual. He looked at the soup, sighed, pushed it away a bit, and was silent for a long time. Suddenly, he looked up at me, his eyes tired, and asked if we could get a divorce.

That soup was always my go-to—ginger, scallion, broth simmered just right. I’d made it a hundred times after business dinners, after late-night flights. This time, when he wouldn’t touch it, I knew it wasn’t about the soup. The silence felt heavier than the air before a summer thunderstorm.

He admitted he’d been having an affair for half a year, and every time he worked late, he’d find time to get a hotel room. My heart trembled, but I tried my best not to lose control. I asked who it was.

I braced myself, bracing my hands on the countertop, knuckles white. My voice was so calm it shocked even me. I wanted to believe there was some mistake, that he’d say a name I’d never heard before.

When he said Linda Moore, I even wondered if I’d heard wrong. A wave of helplessness washed over me—cold and numbing.

I felt like the ground gave way beneath my feet. The room seemed to shrink, the colors leaching out of the morning sun. My mind raced through a thousand moments—her smile, the way she lingered by the copier, the cookies, the careful politeness. And suddenly, it all made a different kind of sense.