My husband asked me to give my
job to his first love.
Six months ago, Mark told me the factory was
struggling, and our monthly food and meat
stamps were cut drastically. I believed him.
Then one day, I saw him pocket most of his
paycheck and stamps right after payday and
take them to his friend’s widow. I blew up,
but he just said coldly, “Because of your
outburst, she lost her job. Go home and think
about what you’ve done.”
And then, he got her a job at the factory… my
job.
Now, I work my tail off day and night, selling
socks at a street stall. People ask me why I’m
working so hard. “Because I want to see the
Mark looked up sharply at me.
“Oh, not at the factory today?”
“Oops, look at my big mouth! Gotta go, gotta
go!”
Neighbors would stop by my doorway,
offering these loaded greetings. Ever since Mark, my own husband, had me fired and
replaced with Sarah Jensen, the whole
neighborhood knew about it. Their looks had
changed from pity to something like…
amusement. I set down my jar of pickled.
bamboo shoots and slammed the door shut.
That night, Mark came home and, as usual,
placed the measly pile of food and meat
stamps on the table.
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“They also gave out half a pound of sugar.
Put that away later,” he said, his voice cool
and distant.
I used to thrill at the sound of his voice. Now,
looking at his handsome profile, I felt nothing.
Maybe I was just tired.
I straightened up, my back aching, and went
to the kitchen to cook dinner. He followed,
taking off his jacket, ready to help as always.
I paused, my hand on the wok. Who would
guess that this steel mill office manager
transformed into a tender, loving husband
after work? I used to think I’d hit the jackpot
marrying him.
But then I saw the gray shirt he was wearing
under his jacket. It wasn’t one I bought. My
hand trembled, gripping the spatula. I blinked
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back tears, telling myself not to cry. But the
spatula clattered to the floor, and I fled the
kitchen. Mark glanced at me, then picked up
the spatula and continued cooking.
“I added chili to this one, your favorite. Eat
up,” he said, taking off his apron and even
serving me a bowl of rice. The perfect
husband.
