My Husband Chose His Mistress

On the way home, my mind was flooded with images of them lost in conversation, wrapped up in their own universe. It was becoming painfully obvious to me that Princeton and I were like two parallel lines destined never to meet.

When I got back that evening, he presented me with a gift—an extravagant sports car that cost more than a house. The car was sleek and incredibly pricey, yet I never had any interest in cars. He never really knew what I liked. I understood he was consumed by guilt, and I chose not to confront him about it. I swallowed the lump in my throat, pretending to be thrilled, smiling as I took the car keys. "Let's have dinner," I suggested.

Seeing the dinner table set with dishes he loved seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders. Later that night, after he had showered, he lay down beside me, inching closer until he pulled me into a hug. In the past, this would have made me happy, but now all I felt was a hollow chill.

His heavy breathing against my back kept me wide awake. Only after he slipped into sleep did I open my eyes. I turned to look at him as he slept, observing him for a long time. I couldn't stop wondering if he ever truly loved me. Had he ever really loved me?

Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my head, snapping me back to reality—I was dying. It's terrifying how obsessions can cling to us, even as life is slipping away, leaving me to ponder, even now, whether he loved me or not.