The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman

sleepwear and a slice of their familial bliss. For some reason, even if the stuff was not my taste, or was even outwardly hideous, I loved getting in bed at the end of the day with catalogs.
    Once in a while I’d order something, but usually it was the bedtime equivalent of the morning’s snooze button—a way to wind down slowly and zone out in front of monogrammed towels or key fobs or knapsacks, toted by perfect all-American children and their carpooling parents. I wondered if as a single mom I’d find the same brainless bliss in those colorful pages, or if I’d chuck the catalog into the trash. I turned the page and found a picture with the dad kissing the mom’s head while she cuddled with the two kids, all four swathed in matchy-matchy huggable fleece.
    Tim hadn’t cuddled me like that in a while, I supposed, but when did that stop? Here you are, a team, and then you just have completely separate lives? I know fatigue and travel and busy schedules all accelerate the slow drifting apart, but when I looked back it seemed like a blink-of-an-eye mutation. This is the man who fathered my child, kissed my belly as it grew swollen with a flesh union of our marriage, and watched our son come out of my vagina. I know it sounds gross and graphic, but that’s what marriage is: the real deal. Unedited. The stuff after the sunset: the screaming baby at 3:00 a.m. It’s bonding through not just the rush of cheek-flushing romance but the viscerally human times, the ugly, the sick—the things beyond the white wedding—the stuff that starts Monday morning. The sharp betrayal gutted me so thoroughly that I threw up a little in my mouth when I heard the jingle of Tim’s keys outside the front door.
    He walked in, complete with rolling T. Anthony suitcase, and found me on the couch.
    â€œHiiiii, honey!”
    Normally, I would have leaped up and hugged him, his cute floppy hair a welcome sight after a few lonely nights. I always marveled over how gorgeous he was, especially when he returned home from a trip and I had missed him.
    A meek “hi” was all I could muster, shakily.
    He unzipped his bag and pulled out a teddy bear wearing a Chicago Cubs jersey for Miles. Such genius planning , I thought. He always came back with various city-emblazoned souvenirs.
    â€œMilesie asleep?” he asked.
    â€œMm-hmm,” I answered.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    Where to begin? I couldn’t look at Tim, so I looked at the huge brown eyes of the teddy bear.
    â€œSo, what, do you have your assistant order the local teddy bear online and ship it so that you have a gift to bring home?”
    â€œHolly, what are you talking about?”
    â€œCome on, Tim. That’s what all the culprits on Murder She Wrote and Law & Order say when they are first confronted. Don’t say, ‘ What are you talking about? ’ Don’t insult me. I may have been an idiot for however long, but I’ve caught on now.”
    His faux-incredulous smile suddenly flattened. Aha! He knew I knew. And now he’d beg for mercy. He’d think of not coming home to Miles and a real home with food in the fridge and hand towels in the powder room and catalogs!
    â€œListen, Holly . . . we have to talk.” Nota bene: any sentence that begins with “listen” or “look” equals chiming death knell for your relationship.
    â€œAbout how you’re cheating on me?” My heart rate spiked, waiting for him to greet my accusation with a laugh, proclaiming its falsity. It was all my imagination! Or It meant nothing! Or It was the first and only time and it was a huge mistake and I totally regret it!
    I was met not with these protestations but rather a long exhale. Another bad sign.
    â€œHow did you know?” was all he could ask, soberly.
    So there it was. No denials, no sweeping it under the rug. That weirdly pissed me off even more.
    â€œHow did I know? I FUCKING SAW YOU,