Do Not Look Back at the Fading Lights

Summary

The ninth time my husband’s mistress had the audacity to change the locks on our front door, a flicker of genuine annoyance finally crossed his face.

I, on the other hand, was the one to calmly soothe him. “She’s just a kid, Alastair. She doesn’t know any better. Don’t get worked up.”

Alastair’s hand, poised to smash the lock, froze mid-air. He turned and stared at me, his eyes boring into mine. “You’re not angry?”

I was almost at a loss for words. After five years of marriage, this kind of chaos was routine. If I got angry every time, I’d have died of a stroke long ago.