My husband demanded I cover his mistress’s $1,250 birthday dinner, calling me “blessedly naive.” I smiled and reached for my purse, but the envelope I placed on the table wasn’t filled with cash.
The desert heat of Southern Utah was already crawling through the vents by nine in the morning. I stood by the kitchen island, staring out at the rising sun.
The house was unnervingly quiet. The older boys had headed up for a fishing trip, and the younger girls were still asleep after the late-night youth service at the ward.
Thirty years.
For thirty years, I had flipped pancakes and packed lunches in that kitchen, believing our marriage was as bedrock-solid as the Zion granite.
“Good grief, Mara, are you burning the toast again?” Grant’s voice rasped from behind me.
