My husband demanded I cover his mistress’s $1,250 birthday dinner, calling me “blessedly naive.” I smiled and reached for my purse, but the envelope I placed on the table wasn’t filled with cash.
The desert heat of Southern Utah was already crawling through the vents by nine in the morning. I stood by the kitchen island, staring out at the rising sun.
The house was unnervingly quiet. The older boys had headed up for a fishing trip, and the younger girls were still asleep after the late-night youth service at the ward.
The house was unnervingly quiet.
Thirty years. For thirty years, I had flipped pancakes and packed lunches in that kitchen, believing our marriage was as bedrock-solid as the Zion granite.
“Good grief, Mara, are you burning the toast again?” Grant’s voice rasped from behind me.
My husband padded into the kitchen in his boxers, scratching his stomach. Six months of unemployment had turned him from a sharp-suited real estate agent into a professional lounge act.
“I was just thinking, Grant. Coffee’s on the counter.”
“I hope it’s strong. I need my edge today. You remember tonight, right? Tamsin is really looking forward to seeing you. She says you’re the gold standard of what a Utah woman should be.”
“You remember tonight, right?
The gold standard of a fool, I thought.
“I remember. Her birthday. It’s a pricey spot, Grant. Can we really afford that right now?”
Grant snorted, pouring himself a mug. His phone was sitting face-up on the island, right next to my hand.
“Mara, don’t start.”
“I just asked, Grant.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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