The room was pitch black, the kind of heavy silence that usually means deep sleep. But I was awake. I had been tossing and turning for an hour, sensing a disturbance in the force.
Then, it happened.
My husband’s phone buzzed at 2:00 AM.
The screen lit up the nightstand like a spotlight. My heart hammered against my ribs. Who texts a married man at two in the morning? I leaned over, squinting at the lock screen, my blood running cold.
I saw a text from “Jessica”.
My stomach dropped. Jessica. The name sounded like perfume and betrayal. I read the preview message, and the air left my lungs.
“‘I’m outside. Are you ready?’“.
Ready? Ready for what? To run away? To start a new life? To engage in a clandestine affair in our own driveway?
I didn’t wake him up to ask for an explanation. I didn’t cry. I saw red.
I stormed out of bed. Adrenaline flooded my system. I marched downstairs, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood. I needed a weapon. I needed protection. I grabbed a bat from the hall closet, gripping the handle until my knuckles turned white.
I reached the front door. I took a deep breath, preparing to face the woman who was trying to destroy my family. I was going to scare her off. I was going to make a scene the neighbors would talk about for decades.
I threw open the front door to confront his mistress.
“You have some nerve!” I screamed, raising the bat.
The figure on the porch jumped back, nearly dropping the brown paper bag in his hands. He was six feet tall, bearded, and wearing a hoodie that smelled like French fries.
He stared at me, eyes wide with terror. “Whoa, lady! I’m just dropping off the order!”
I lowered the bat, confused. “Where’s Jessica?”
He pointed a thumb at his own chest. “It was the Uber Eats driver. His name was Jessica.“.
I stood there, panting, clutching a Louisville Slugger, staring at a man named Jessica holding a grease-stained bag.
Behind me, I heard footsteps. My husband shuffled into the hallway, rubbing his eyes, looking sleepy and innocent.
“Is the food here?” he mumbled.
“Food?” I shrieked. “I thought you were leaving me for a woman named Jessica!”
He looked at the driver, then at the bat, then at me. “My husband had ordered nuggets because he couldn’t sleep,” and he simply forgot to mention that our midnight rendezvous was with a deep fryer, not a homewrecker.
I tipped “Jessica” twenty dollars for the trauma, locked the door, and ate half the nuggets in angry silence while my husband promised to never, ever order food from anyone with a racially ambiguous name after midnight again.
