Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
I, on the other hand, would have had a hundred babies if it were up to me. They’re the center of my universe, my whole reason for living. I literally breathe for them. Only them. Certainly not my husband, who’s been distant for so long.
Busy. He’d been busy.
Working all hours, sixty a week, to take care of his wife, three kids, our big house, his sports car and truck, my fancy Tahoe with all the bells and whistles, because he would be damned if he’d buy something so… “middle class” as a minivan. Anything below sixty grand and he wouldn’t be caught dead in it—his words.
And it was up to me to stay at home and take care of the house and kids. Which I absolutely love, don’t get me wrong, but that’s just a happy coincidence. If I didn’t love being a homemaker and spending every spare second with my children, then I would be shit out of luck, because this is who Mike groomed me to be. He needed the Stepford wife, the perfect Pinterest mom. He needed me to put Joanna Gaines to shame.
I internally snort.
Yeah, right.
Like anyone could put that goddess to shame.
He needed all this, because that’s what his own mom was, to keep up the appearances that we were the perfect 1950s couple. I got married and pregnant with twins right after high school. I didn’t go to college. Hell, I’ve never even had a job before, except for that little fast-food job I had through my junior and senior year. Ten years later and I still reply “My pleasure” when someone says thank you.
But I didn’t mind that this was what he wanted. I live a pretty cush life. I got to make my home absolutely beautiful. I got to be with my babies and not miss a single moment of their lives. I got to spend my days trying out different recipes I found, arts and crafts projects with my kids, all sorts of things to fill the hours of the day that Mike was at work to the point I was just as exhausted as he was when he got home and passed out not long after we put the girls to bed at nine every night.
“Cecilia!”
It’s not my proper name being shouted in my face that startles me and makes me drop the glass bowl of peanut butter goo to the floor, the shards and sticky mixture exploding at my feet.
It’s Mike’s hand on my upper arm, his touch a searing pain as the reality of his words finally slam into my mind like the wrecking ball they are.
“Don’t touch me!” I sneer, lifting my foot to take a step back. And although my husband is apparently a cheating motherfucker, he at least cares about me just enough to lift my stiffening body from the floor before I can set my bare foot down onto the pile of glass and sits me on the marble counter.
He jolts backward out of my reach when my hand swipes out, fingers curled like claws to scratch him, and he steps in the gooey cookie dough, his foot shooting out from under him. He barely catches himself on the refrigerator door handle before he can hit the ground. Pity.
“Cece, I know you’re upset—”
“Upset? Upset!”
“—but this can’t be too much of a shock. Surely. We haven’t been happy in years,” he continues as if I’m not about to reach over to the butcher block, grab all of the steak knives from the bottom two rows, and start chucking them at his freaking head.
“Oh, we haven’t? That’s news to me, Mike! I’ve been pretty damn happy giving you the perfect home and raising your babies, taking care of everything while you go to work. Speaking of, when did you even have time to sleep with someone else? As far as I knew, if you’re not at work, you’re here. So when?” I glare, and if looks could kill, I’d be calling a coroner for my husband of ten years.
“And that’s true,” he says, and he gives me a look that makes his words sink in.
“Work? You slept with someone at work?” My voice has reached an octave I’m sure only my sister’s dogs would hear. I look at him with disgust. “That’s just… so fucking cliché, Mike. Really? Sleep with a coworker while your wife is at home cooking you dinner? You’re disgusting.” I spin on the slick countertop and hop off on the other side of the island.
“That may very well be, but I’m a fucking man, Cece. I have needs. And you never want—”
“Don’t you even blame this on me, Michael. If you wanted sex with your wife so badly, then maybe you should’ve done a little more to make her feel like she was more to you than your maid, nanny, and personal chef!”