Chapter 3: The Stranger in the Mirror
After Jake finished his bath and bounded off to his room, I found myself standing alone in our master bathroom, staring at the woman in the mirror.
Who is this person?
The overhead lights were merciless, highlighting every flaw I'd learned to ignore. My stomach still carried the soft pouch from two pregnancies, stretch marks spreading across my belly like a spider web. The laugh lines around my eyes had deepened into permanent creases. When had my jawline gotten so soft?
Is this what David got tired of looking at? Is this why he chose Jessica?
I touched the mirror, remembering Jessica's flat stomach, her tight athletic wear that showed off curves I'd never get back. She was twenty-eight to my thirty-five—seven years might as well have been a lifetime.
Walking into our closet, I pulled out my old work clothes from the marketing company. The Calvin Klein black suit I'd saved three months to buy, back when I had my own paycheck and my own ambitions.
I tried to zip it up. The skirt wouldn't close around my hips, and the blazer pulled tight across my chest. When did I become someone who only shops at Target?
The closet was full of Lululemon yoga pants and casual mom wear—practical clothes for a practical life. I couldn't remember the last time I'd worn anything that made me feel powerful.
But it wasn't always like this.
Back in college at UConn, I was the marketing major with the 3.8 GPA, the one who landed a competitive internship at Hartford's top advertising agency. David was the ambitious business student who worked three part-time jobs to pay for his meal plan.
"I know I can't give you much right now," he'd said during one of our late-night study sessions, "but I swear, someday I'll give you everything you deserve."
"David, I don't need everything. I just need you."
God, I was naive.
After graduation, we moved to that tiny Boston apartment while David tried to get his consulting firm off the ground. I used my advertising contacts to find his first clients, convinced my parents to loan us the twenty thousand from our wedding fund for his office rent. Every evening after my own job, I'd help him prepare presentations and pitch decks.
I was wearing Banana Republic then, confident professional clothes for a woman who knew her worth. I'd stand beside David at networking events, seamlessly introducing him to potential clients.
When we moved to Westport and Emma was born, my company offered me a promotion to Marketing Director. More money, more responsibility, more travel.
"You don't need to work so hard anymore," David had said, cradling our newborn daughter. "I'm making enough to support us all. Wouldn't you rather be here with her?"
I wanted to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother. Just like my own mom had been.
Now I realized the cruel irony—the young, ambitious woman who'd supported David through his struggling years was the same woman he now found "inadequate." The body that had carried his children, the career I'd sacrificed for his success—Jessica probably didn't even know about any of it.
It wasn't that I'd become less worthy. David had simply forgotten my value and everything I'd sacrificed for him.
Jessica had sat in my kitchen, crying about her struggles as a single mom. I'd helped her get that coaching job, and she thanked me by sleeping with my husband.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. Emma peeked around the door, hair still damp from her shower.
"Mom? I was thirsty and... you look sad."
I quickly wiped my eyes. "Just tired, sweetheart."
She padded over and wrapped her arms around my waist. "You're the best mom in the world, you know that?"
My children need a mother who fights for their future, not one who wallows in self-pity.
"I love you too, Em. Now get to bed."
Later that night, I sat at the kitchen island with a glass of wine, scrolling through photos on my phone—our Hawaii honeymoon, David crying with joy when Emma was born, family vacations where we all looked genuinely happy.
Did those moments mean nothing to him?
I can't just let him throw away thirteen years and destroy our children's stability for some twenty-eight-year-old.
While I was cleaning up from dinner, I called Rebecca Chen, David's corporate lawyer and our friend from the country club. She was Stanford Law, specialized in high-net-worth divorces. If anyone could help me understand my options, it was Rebecca.
"Rebecca, I need your help," I said when she picked up. "David is having an affair, and he's threatening me financially. According to Connecticut law, what am I entitled to? Do I have any claim to Mitchell & Associates?"
Rebecca knew David's entire financial situation. She could give me real answers.
The next morning after dropping the kids at school, I sat in my BMW waiting for Rebecca to call back. Instead, I got a text: "Sarah, I'm sorry, but I spoke with David last night. Due to professional ethics, I can't represent you in this matter."