After I gave birth to our triplets, my husband brought his mistress to the hospital, a Birkin hanging from her arm, just to humiliate me. “You’re too ugly now. Sign the divorce,” he sneered. When I returned home with my babies, I discovered the house had already been transferred into the mistress’s name. I called my parents in tear “I chose wrong. You were right about him.” They thought I had surrendered. They had no idea who my parents really were… Two days later, karma arrived.
Two days later. The rain had cleared, replaced by a sunny afternoon that felt mocking in its cheerfulness. The Victorian house was vibrating with bass. David was hosting a “Freedom Party.” Cars lined the street—BMWs, Audis, the mid-tier luxury vehicles of suburban climbers. The front lawn was littered with red solo cups. Inside, champagne flowed.
