Chapter 5: Betrayal and Wildfire

But how could I not resent him—especially when I was seven months pregnant with Natalie.

That was the worst of it: swollen ankles, cravings for oranges at midnight, and David’s betrayal blooming like a bruise.

That was when I discovered he had kept a mistress outside the household. How considerate of him, to avoid hurting me, he kept her in a downtown apartment.

A place with a view of Main Street, probably. The kind of secret everyone in town pretended not to know, because it was easier that way.

The woman was Lillian, who had once sworn to marry only him, and who, after I married David, had voluntarily moved away to another city.

She was the kind of woman who’d show up at the junior league bake sale with perfect blond curls, every bit the ingénue. We all knew her type.

One would marry only him, the other cherished her feelings for him—what a perfect pair.

It was almost comical: his heart split between two women, neither truly his.

With my belly heavy, I entered that small apartment and smashed everything I could.

The crash of glass and splintered wood felt like justice. I was wild, not caring who heard—finally letting the anger roar out after months of quiet suffering.

Then, I grabbed the decorative sword from David’s study and pointed it at him. I didn’t cry—just stared at him in silence.

The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh: a suburban housewife with a Civil War saber, trembling in her bathrobe. My anger was a wildfire—no way to stamp it out.

To point a weapon at your husband, in this era, could get you arrested.

Especially in a town like Maple Heights, where the police chief played poker with your husband every Thursday. It was a risk, but I didn’t care.

Lillian stood to the side, terrified.

Her face was white as milk, eyes huge and shining with fear. She clutched her purse like a lifeline.

David tried to calm me, explaining:

"I was drunk. Lillian is innocent. I can’t pretend nothing happened."

His voice was low, the words slipping out in a practiced rhythm. I could see the lie in his eyes, so worn out it hardly mattered anymore.

What a laughable excuse. I suddenly found it absurd, and actually laughed out loud.

The sound was harsh, sharp, echoing off the apartment’s cold walls. For a moment, I saw myself as if from above—unhinged, unstoppable, free.

David gazed at me quietly, took a step closer, and the blade pressed another inch into him.

He didn’t flinch. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t do it. Maybe he was right.

He looked at me, pained, and called out:

"Em."

My name, soft and broken. The nickname he only used when he wanted something.

Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through my lower abdomen—my water broke.

The anger vanished, replaced by panic. All at once, the room spun and I was just a woman about to become a mother again, terrified and alone.

When I gave birth to Natalie, I was in labor for a full day and night.

The hospital room was a blur of beeping monitors and the faint sting of antiseptic. Outside, snow piled up against the window, muffling the world.

David stayed with me the entire time, letting me squeeze his hand until it bled.

His knuckles turned white, his skin raw. For a brief moment, it almost felt like he cared—almost.

As soon as I could move, I kicked David out of the hospital room.

My voice was weak but clear: "Get out." He left, looking stunned, as if he’d never been told no before.

That was the ugliest period of my life—hysterical, hopeless.

I wore pajamas all day, let the dishes pile up, snapped at everyone who tried to help. Nothing mattered but the ache in my chest.

We fought countless times, saying the cruelest things in anger.

There were nights we screamed at each other so loud the neighbors called, and mornings we pretended nothing had happened. It was a cycle we couldn’t escape.

Sometimes, I would recall that bright-eyed young man, raising his hand and promising me, word by word:

"I promise you, in this life, there will be only you."

I could still hear the old record player spinning that night—Sinatra crooning, “The best is yet to come,” back when hope still felt easy.

And so I was trapped in that dead end, unable to escape.

The promise had become a prison, and I’d thrown away the key.