“Oh, stop it, you’re terrible,” a woman’s voice purred—slick, expensive, and utterly familiar.
I peered through the gap between the stroller boxes. There, standing in the aisle of premium imported cribs, was my husband. He wasn’t wearing his frantic, overworked expression. He was wearing a Brioni suit—one I knew we couldn’t afford—and he was smiling down at Madison, his “executive assistant.”
Madison was glowing, her hand resting possessively on his forearm. She looked pristine, untroub
