Don't Provoke the Housewife

Evangeline's POV

"Evangeline, dear, you really should learn how to be a proper wife."

The words slapped me right in the face during Sunday service at Millfield Methodist Church. Prudence—my oh-so-sweet mother-in-law—said it loud enough for the whole congregation to hear, her voice oozing fake sympathy and real poison.

I gripped Isaac's tiny hand tighter as he fidgeted beside me in the pew. My three-year-old was getting antsy, and honestly, so was I. Around us, familiar faces from our small-town church turned to stare—some with pity, others with that barely hidden judgment.

"Look at the Miller family," Prudence went on, pointing to the front row where the perfect clan sat in their Sunday finest. "Richard never misses a service. That's what a devoted husband looks like."

'Bitch,' I thought, forcing a smile that probably came off as a grimace. At twenty-six, here I was getting schooled like a kid in front of folks I'd known forever.

"Thaddeus had an emergency at the factory," I whispered back, recycling the same excuse I'd used for months. "You know how dedicated he is to his work."

Dedicated, alright. Just not to us.

Mrs. Henderson from the choir gave me a sympathetic glance, but I caught the whispers starting up. 'Poor Evangeline.' 'Can't keep her man interested.' 'What does she do all day at home anyway?'

Isaac tugged my dress. "Mama, where's Daddy?"

The question no three-year-old should ask in church. Where was Daddy, indeed?

"He's working, sweetheart," I murmured, kissing his blonde curls that matched mine perfectly.

Prudence pursed her lips like she'd bitten into a lemon. "A wife's job is to make her husband want to come home, Evangeline. Maybe if you put a little more effort into—"

"Mrs. Hayes, perhaps we should focus on the sermon," Pastor Williams cut in from the pulpit, clearly eavesdropping on our family drama.

Thank God for small mercies.

But the damage was done. Judgment hung in the air like Prudence's heavy perfume. The same women who'd toasted my wedding four years ago now eyed me like a total failure.

'Screw this,' I thought, standing up. "Come on, Isaac. We're out of here."

"But Mama—"

"Now."

I grabbed our stuff with whatever dignity I had left—not much—and hustled him down the aisle, past the stained-glass windows of my childhood and the altar where Thaddeus and I had vowed to love, honor, and cherish.

What a load of crap that turned out to be.

The September air hit me like a lifeline as we burst into the parking lot. Isaac's hand felt warm in mine—he was the only good thing from this mess of a marriage.

"Mama, why was Grandma Prudence mean?"

Out of the mouths of babes. "Sometimes grown-ups say stuff they don't mean, baby."

A total lie, and we both knew it. Prudence meant every damn word.

I was fishing for my car keys when I remembered Isaac's diaper bag was in Thaddeus's truck. Of course. Because this day wasn't humiliating enough.

His black Ford F-150 sat at the lot's edge, chrome bumpers gleaming like a middle finger to my crappy morning. Thaddeus loved that stupid truck more than his own family, apparently.

"Stay close, Isaac," I said, leading him over.

That's when I spotted it: a pink lipstick tube rolled halfway under the passenger seat.

"Mama, what's that?" Isaac pointed, full of toddler curiosity.

"Nothing, baby. Just stay by the truck."

I yanked open the door, heart pounding. Someone had been riding shotgun in my husband's truck.

Then I saw the ashtray: Virginia Slims butts, thin and elegant, with faint lipstick stains—not Thaddeus's high-school Marlboro Reds. At least six or seven.

'What the hell, Thaddeus?'

I slammed the door, hands shaking. Isaac played with a pebble by the tire, oblivious to my world crumbling.

The drive home blurred by in a haze of suburban streets and racing thoughts. Isaac chattered about church music and the lady with the funny hat, while I pieced together the nightmare.

There had to be a rational explanation. Maybe a coworker needed a ride. Maybe—

'Get real, Evangeline. You're twenty-six, not sixteen.'

Our white house with blue shutters looked like a postcard of the American dream as we pulled in. Too bad the inside was a nightmare.

"Naptime, buddy," I said, ushering Isaac through the door.

"But I'm not tired," he whined, eyes already drooping.

"How about a story first?"

That worked. Twenty minutes later, he was out cold, clutching his stuffed elephant like a lifeline.

I watched him sleep, so peaceful. How do you tell a three-year-old his daddy might be...

No. Not jumping to conclusions. Not yet.

But doubt shadowed me into the bedroom. The bed we'd shared for four years looked normal—rumpled navy sheets, Thaddeus's pillow still dented from his 6 AM "emergency" exit.

I was stashing church clothes when I opened the nightstand for a hair tie.

There it was: a box of Trojans. Ultra-sensitive. The brand we'd used back when we actually... you know.

Except we hadn't touched each other in nearly two years.

I opened it with trembling fingers. Eight left out of twenty.

I sank onto the bed, staring. Twenty minus eight: twelve missing. Twelve condoms used—by someone. Not me.

'Two years,' my mind raced. 'Two years of "I'm tired" and "maybe tomorrow" and "work's stressful."'

Not too stressful for someone else, apparently.

The room spun. I set the box down and glanced around: my sensible cotton undies in the dresser, my reflection in the mirror—a woman lost between marriage and motherhood—and our wedding photo, all naive smiles.

My phone buzzed: "Working late again. Don't wait up. - T"

Working late. Like always. All those nights I'd crashed alone, wondering what I'd done wrong.

Turns out, I wasn't giving him something. But someone else was.

'Well, Evangeline,' I told my reflection, 'time to find out what your husband really does on overtime.'

The empty box sat like crime-scene evidence, and for the first time since "I do," I started plotting my next move.