The First Cut is the Deepest

That line from Sheryl Crow’s song wouldn’t stop running through my head.  I guess the first cut really is the deepest — unless the second, third, fourth and fifth cuts are all worthy of Jack the Ripper.

March 14th, 2012.  That was my personal D Day — you know what I mean.  Dazed.  Distraught. Devastated.  Disgusted.  It was Spring Break, and we had plans to have dinner with our boy child’s best friend’s family.  The X and the boy child were out front mowing the lawn.  I needed to get on the laptop the X and I had been sharing since he lost his job in January to check my email to see if E (remember her?) wanted me to bring anything besides dessert that night.  I went into the X’s home office and was surprised to find an email from E to the X staring back at me.  I scanned the email.  Why was she emailing my husband, and why were the two of them talking about the margaritas they couldn’t wait to share with each other?

I scrolled through what turned out to be a very lengthy email exchange between the two of them and stopped cold when I got to the one the X sent to her telling her, “I can’t wait to have your perfect mouth wrapped around my throbbing cock.”

My mouth went dry and my body started to shake uncontrollably.  That couldn’t possibly be right.  This was my husband — and our son’s best friend’s mom.  Looking back, I wish I had the presence of mind to send the entire conversation to the printer, but when you see your husband talking about another woman’s mouth being places it has no business being, your mind doesn’t exactly click on all cylinders.

I was able to pull it together long enough to go to his “Sent” file to see what fresh hell awaited.  The only email address I didn’t recognize belonged to M.  I opened the last email he had sent to her.  He was asking her about potential job leads then told her he would be traveling to the northeast soon and would love to see her gorgeous face and body again.  What. The. Hell.

How could this be?  Not my husband.  Not my life.  I found a post-it note, wrote down M’s email address and his salacious message to E — I didn’t want to have to hear those words come out of my mouth when I confronted him.  I went to the front door, opened it, and stared at the man I thought was my soul mate.  The man I evidently didn’t know at all.

“Hey, babe.  What’s up?  Are you okay?”

Um, no.  I am not okay, and I will never, ever truly be okay again.  But thanks for asking.  Not trusting myself to speak, I motioned for him to follow me.  We found our way, in silence, to the walk-in closet off of our bedroom.  I handed him the post-it note.

“What the hell is this all about?” I was shocked at the steadiness of my voice — knowing it wouldn’t last.  Then it happened.  The tears came — and came — and came.  I couldn’t tell which was coming faster — my tears or his excuses.

“I was drunk when I wrote that.”     “She was helping me with job leads.”     “We started talking about the kids at first and things just got carried away.”     “It was all just talk.  Nothing physical ever happened.  I’d never do that to you.”     “I’m so, so sorry, Summer.  It will never happen again.”

Not just the room, but my whole world started spinning, “Go tell the kids we aren’t going over there for dinner tonight.  Then you email that whore and tell her you two are done.  We’ll talk more about this when the kids are in bed tonight.”

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