Mark and I had been married **ten years.** Two kids. A mortgage. A life I thought was solid.
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Sure, Mark never **helped** around the house. I worked, raised our children, cooked, cleaned—everything. But I told myself, *”It’s fine. We’re a team.”*
Except Mark was **playing for another team.**
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Last week, I came home **arms full of groceries** when I heard **voices on the porch.** I stopped in my tracks. It was **Mark and Emma**—our neighbor’s **25-year-old daughter.**
I inched closer.
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*”I can’t believe she hasn’t figured it out,”* Emma giggled.
Mark laughed. *”She’s so busy with the kids and the house. She doesn’t even look like a woman anymore. You’re so much better, my princess.”*
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Then, they **kissed.**
I stood there, frozen. **Humiliated. Angry.**
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But I didn’t confront them. No screaming, no tears.
I walked around the house, entered through the **back door,** and started planning.
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The next morning, I kissed Mark goodbye **like always** and headed straight to Emma’s house.
I knocked.
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She answered, **clueless.**
*”Emma, I need your help,”* I said sweetly. *”Could you come over tomorrow? I want your advice on redecorating the living room. I heard you studied design.”*
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She beamed, pleased with the compliment. *”Oh! Sure! What time?”*
*”Seven,”* I said, **smiling.**
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She had **no idea** what was coming.