“I can explain!” my husband yelled as I caught him with a much younger woman. Instead of yelling, I quietly went to make tea. He followed me downstairs. She came too. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said warmly. “What’s your name, sweetheart? How old are you?” “Brianna. I’m 27,” she murmured, glancing at him — who was suddenly very interested in a drawer.
“Oh, a grown woman! Ever married? Any kids?”
She nodded. “A daughter. She’s three.”
“How lovely. Who’s she with now?”
“My mom.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” I smiled, pouring tea. “Drink up, Brianna. No one here’s going to hurt you.”
“Are you… mocking me?” she suddenly asked. “YOU HATE ME!” The next moment her face turned PALE when I simply placed the steaming mug in her trembling hand.
She really thought I hated her. How sweet. How naive. My smile didn’t waver. “No, sweetheart. I don’t hate you. Not at all. In fact, I’m quite… intrigued. A three-year-old daughter, living with your mother. That sounds like a challenging situation for a young, single mom, doesn’t it?”
His head shot up. He finally pulled his gaze from the imaginary dust on the cabinet and looked at me, a flicker of fear, or perhaps recognition, in his eyes. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, a silent statue of shame and complicity.
I’ve watched him do this for years. A new face, a new crisis, always the same panicked excuses. At first, it broke me. Each time, a new shard of my soul splintered off. I begged. I cried. I screamed. But nothing ever changed. The emptiness inside me only grew. The gaping hole where a family should have been. Our family.
They told me I couldn’t have children. Not naturally. IVF was a dead end. Adoption agencies judged my age, his instability. Years bled into each other, a slow, agonizing drip of hope turning to dust. He promised he’d stop. He always promised. And I always believed him, because what else did I have?
Then, the numbness set in. The affairs stopped hurting me directly. They became a pattern. A resource. A path.
“Brianna,” I continued, my voice soft, almost maternal. “I know this isn’t how you imagined meeting me. You probably thought I’d be screaming, maybe throwing things. But frankly, I’m beyond that. I’m looking for something specific now. Something you might be able to help with.”
She slowly lowered the mug, her eyes wide, darting between me and him. He looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards.
“You mentioned your daughter,” I said, leaning forward slightly, my gaze locking onto hers. “Three years old, with your mother. Tell me, are you close to her? Do you see her often? Are you… struggling?”
She didn’t know what I was asking. She couldn’t possibly. My heart ached, not for her betrayal, but for the clarity of my own desperate need. The affairs were merely a funnel. A way to meet women who fit a certain profile. Young, a little lost, perhaps with a child they couldn’t fully provide for.
“Because I want to help you, Brianna,” I stated, my voice dropping to a near whisper, but with an steel edge she couldn’t miss. “And in return, I want your daughter.”
Her jaw dropped. The mug slipped from her fingers, shattering on the tile. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting mine, not with shame now, but with PURE TERROR. He knew. He finally understood the depths of my silence, the chilling purpose behind my calm. He was just the bait. Brianna’s face was bloodless, not from fear of me, but from the horrifying realization of why I had welcomed her so warmly into my home. This wasn’t about him at all. This was about what she had. And I was going to get it.
