Chapter 7: The Good Wife

After that day, I figured things out—or maybe, I just accepted my fate.

I stopped fighting the current and let it carry me downstream. There was a kind of peace in surrender.

I wrote a letter, filled with grievance and longing, and had someone deliver it to David.

Each word was a thread of hope and bitterness, folded and sealed with shaking hands. I imagined him reading it, maybe feeling something for once.

That night, after half a year, David entered the guest house again.

His footsteps were hesitant, almost apologetic. The air was thick with old ghosts.

I wore his favorite green dress, waiting for him in the hallway. The silk clung to my skin, cool and unforgiving, as I waited in the hallway.

Looking up at him, I said nothing—only let the tears fall.

My face was streaked, makeup smudged. I didn’t bother to hide it. Let him see the wreckage.

As I expected, David gathered me in his arms.

His hug was fierce, desperate, as if holding me might undo the past.

He gently comforted me:

"I will treat you well, forever and ever."

His voice was thick, his promises cheap. I’d heard it all before, but let myself believe for a moment.

He promised me this. The Chief of Staff who could sway the town council was almost reckless that night.

He let the world fall away, his control slipping. For one night, we were just two people, not roles.

He kissed every scar and stretch mark, whispering that I was beautiful, like he was trying to rewrite history with his lips.

He made me call his name, just as in the past.

It was a ritual—my voice, his answer—a script we both knew by heart.

So I called it, again and again—and he answered, again and again.

We clung to each other like survivors after a storm, pretending it was enough.

I smiled faintly, gentle as water. But when he left, I clung to the maple tree in the backyard, bark digging into my palms, retching until my throat burned.

Afraid of getting pregnant again, I took a handful of pills, cutting off the possibility at the root.

I counted each one, hands trembling. It was the only control I had left.

After that day, we seemed to return to the sweetness of the early years.

We played house, smiled at parties, fooled everyone but ourselves.

Lillian was sent away by the family, to a retreat upstate—to spend her days in solitude.

I heard whispers about her breakdown, the rehab facility on Lake Erie, the nurses paid to keep quiet.

Later, I personally picked women for David, choosing them with care.

I studied their resumes like a hiring manager, meeting them in coffee shops, sizing up their ambitions.

Gentle, affectionate, talented, able to discuss books and music—someone who could share his ideals.

I looked for women who could fill the emptiness I’d left behind, women who wouldn’t threaten my place but would ease his boredom.

But that day, David was furious, his gaze as cold as ice.

He glared at me across the breakfast table, his coffee untouched, his knuckles white on the newspaper.

"You really are a good wife."

His tone dripped with sarcasm. I looked at him, a little confused.

His words stung, but I couldn’t quite make sense of them. Hadn’t I done what he wanted?

He said I was jealous—now he was dissatisfied too.

It was a lose-lose game. I couldn’t win, no matter what mask I wore.

A man’s heart is like a locked box, impossible to figure out.

I’d given up trying to find the key. I let him keep his secrets.

I thought maybe the woman I picked wasn’t suitable, so I chose a few more.

I became an expert matchmaker, as if curating his harem might buy me peace.

Curvy, slender, lively, quiet, charming—every type.

I rotated them like dinner menus, hoping one might finally satisfy his appetite.

That day, David’s gaze was strange, but he said nothing, and spent the night with the new woman.

I watched him disappear down the hallway, feeling nothing but emptiness.

Afterwards, the household flourished, and there were many more children born to his mistresses.

The house was always full—babies wailing, laughter echoing. A strange kind of joy I could never touch.

They all called me "Mom," greeted me every day, and I returned their smiles.

I practiced my answers, my warmth, my patience. It was easier than explaining the truth.

But every time they greeted me, I couldn’t help but think—these children were living proof of my husband’s intimacy with other women.

Their faces were a mirror of David’s—his eyes, his smile. Each one a fresh reminder of what I’d lost.

No matter how many years I lived in this era, I could never get used to it.

I’d walk the halls at night, haunted by the sound of little feet, the echoes of laughter that never belonged to me.

Everyone said I was a kind and capable matriarch, never harsh to any child, always planning good futures for them.

I made sure they had good tutors, proper shoes, polite manners. My reputation became a kind of armor, protecting me from their pity.

Only I knew the disgust that rose in my heart each time I looked at them.

It was a secret I carried, heavy as lead. I hated myself for it, but couldn’t stop.

I hated David, so I hated them too.

My anger became a contagion, infecting everything I touched.

Now, I am finally about to die.

It feels like relief—a weight finally set down, a role finally finished.