I was working a night shift, exhausted but grateful—until I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw my husband in the back seat… with another woman. I stayed silent, already planning his downfall. I once believed I was lucky to have Jason.
He came into my life when I was at my peak: a good job at a large company, a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, a five-year-old son named Jamie. And Jason… He was handsome, charismatic, and temporarily homeless. “It’s fine, we’ll manage,” I told my friend when he moved in.
“You barely know him!” she whispered. I truly believed he was special. I helped him get a job through my contacts.
He quickly became “successful”: new suits, a new car, and a year later — a proposal. “You can quit your job, Abby. Focus on Jamie.
I’ll provide for us,” he said, convincingly. And I believed him. At first, life really was good.
But as soon as I stopped earning, everything changed. Jamie became “a problem,” “too sensitive,” “not how a real boy should be.”
And I hardly ever saw money from Jason. It was always “on the card,” “not processed yet,” and “just hang in there.” I stayed silent.
But eventually, I started working night shifts as a taxi driver while Jason was “away on business.”
That night I came home late, and Martha, our downstairs neighbor, was already waiting at the door in her pink robe. “So, how was work, sweetheart?” she asked, gently stroking Jamie’s hair. He was already asleep, hugging her dog like a pillow.
“Better than nothing,” I sighed. “And you… How did it go?”
“Oh, with him — like with my own. Just give me a child and my day has a purpose.
I never had grandkids, so Jamie is my little treasure.”
“And that Jason of yours…” she grimaced. “Does he even know how hard this is for you?”
“He knows,” I lied. “He’s just… busy with work.”
But in truth, as it turned out — he was busy with something else entirely.
Something that would make me question every single choice I’d ever made. ***
It was supposed to be a regular shift. A typical call from a restaurant downtown.
A man in a gray coat and a woman with glossy red lipstick got in. I glanced at the mirror — and my chest tightened. It was Jason.
With his mistress. They slid into the back seat, cozy like a couple on their honeymoon. I pulled my hood deeper over my forehead and said nothing.
“Finally,” she murmured. “I thought you were going to come up with another ‘my son has a fever’ excuse.”
They kissed. I fought the nausea rising in my throat.
“So,” she said, “my parents want to meet you.”
Jason looked at her, confused. “They said they’d gift me a house if they see I’m with someone serious. A fiancé.”
He let out a short laugh.
“They’re really conservative. We won’t tell them about your wife — I mean, you’re divorcing her soon anyway, right?”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You’re my favorite.
My clever, clever girl. I love that about you.”
Her voice turned silky. Jason chuckled, low and pleased.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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