My Husband Cut Down My Last Memory for His Mistress

On our seventh wedding anniversary, I found another woman’s lace thong in my bedroom.

My husband, Mark Donovan, stood in front of the closet and said coldly,

“She’s just a kid, Leslie. Don’t make this ugly.”

That “kid” was pregnant with his child.

That “kid” had already moved into my home, worn his shirts, slept in my bed, and made him cut down the magnolia tree my dead parents planted for me.

Everyone in the Donovan family thought I would scream, cry, and beg.

After all, I had loved Mark for nine years.

But this time, I only picked up my suitcase.

Because they didn’t know one thing.

The divorce had already been filed.

The Donovan wife’s emerald brooch had already been returned.

And the evidence against his precious little mistress had already been delivered to the old Don.

Mark thought I was walking out of his mansion.

He didn’t know I was walking out of his life.

Forever.

As I approached the wrought-iron gates of our estate, I saw the groundskeeper directing men to cut down the magnolia tree at the entrance.

Mark caught up with me, his voice flat and businesslike, the same tone he used when ordering a hit.

"Leslie, Megan's pregnant. The scent makes her nauseous. The tree has to go."

That tree was planted the day I was born. My parents had died in a rival family's ambush when I was six, leaving me almost nothing. That tree was one of the few things I had left of them.

When my eyes reddened, he didn't soften. Instead, he pulled out his wallet.

"Name your price. I'll compensate you."

I didn't answer.

What price could you put on a tree? On seven years of marriage? Even our seven years of marriage had become something I no longer knew how to value.

I thought back to last month at the ski lodge in Aspen, he'd done the same thing. "Leslie, give Megan your goggles. The glare bothers her eyes. You can use the spare pair."

It was always like this. Megan's needs always came first. And me? His wife? I was just there, made to feel like an outsider.

I watched the magnolia tree begin to fall, its white blossoms scattering across the driveway like snow.

"It's just a tree," I said softly. "How could it compare to Megan's baby?"

Mark froze, clearly surprised. In the past, whenever he had coddled Megan, I would have surely caused a scene

"Leslie... you're really not angry?"

Before he could say more, Megan came running out in one of Mark's dress shirts, its sleeves rolled up to reveal angry red welts across her forearms.

"Mark!" Her voice was breathy, panicked. "I think I'm having an allergic reaction. The baby, oh God, what if something happens to the baby?"

She stumbled dramatically, twisting her ankle.

Mark's face changed at once, cold calculation giving way to raw fear. He swept her into his arms, cradling her like she was made of glass.