A Housewife Scorned

Aubrey stands in her kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, nodding as she tells Winston her last clients finally left. Homeowners can drain the life out of you, she says, but she is counting the minutes until she can feel his hands on her again. His voice goes flat when he explains the meeting that just got booked, and she feels her chest tighten. “Fine,” she mutters, then slams the phone onto the marble counter so hard the case cracks. Seconds later her real-estate friend calls again: she saw Winston downtown, pressed against a younger woman. Aubrey’s laptop is open before the words finish sinking in. She types Mia’s name, scrolls through pastel blog posts, through photos of this stay-at-home mommy adjusting a toddler’s sun hat while a tiny diamond wedding band catches the light. Every picture makes Aubrey’s pulse drum harder. She stops at one—Winston’s hand draped low on Mia’s hip, background blurred but unmistakable. Heat creeps up her neck. She stares at the screen until her vision blurs, then grabs her keys. A wrench glints on the driveway toolbox as she passes. She slips it into her coat pocket and drives.