When Alina finds a secret present that disappears without explanation, she becomes suspicious. She sees flaws in her idyllic existence as doubts arise. Everything breaks during her husband’s birthday celebration with a gentle phrase from their kid. Betrayals might come in heels and crimson lipstick. Others serve cake discreetly in aprons with a grin.

I didn’t spy. True, I wasn’t.

Just looking for the picnic blanket. My son Jamie wanted it for his school’s evening picnic, and I knew I had hidden it in the closet behind a wall of baggage and stuff we seldom used.

Jamie pleaded me, “Please, Mom,” with a sly smile. “I told everyone I’m bringing the blanket and soda. I also promised chocolate-caramel cupcakes.”

Of course I agreed. How could I not?

After searching dusty bags and folded clothes, I located the blanket under two old luggage. It was followed by a sleek black box I didn’t recognize.

Curiousity beckoned.

I froze after lifting the lid.

It was skirt. That skirt.

Hand-stitched embroidery on rich plum satin shimmers in the light. The one I showed my husband, Mark, months ago when window shopping. One I half-joked was “too indulgent.” Never expected to possess it, but hoped he would surprise me.

“You deserve indulgent, Alina,” he remarked, smiling.

As I held the cloth, I thought, This is it. My birthday present. He recalled.

Totally overwhelmed. We were having trouble lately—too many transactional days, not enough connectivity. It reminded me of the guy I fell in love with. Thoughtful. Attentive. Sweet.

Heart racing, I returned the package. I wanted Mark to not know I saw it. He can surprise me. I even purchased a silky ivory blouse to match and kept it in my sock drawer till then.

The skirt never arrived on my birthday.

Instead, Mark sent me a gift-wrapped package of lovely hardback versions of my favorite novels. Yes, thoughtful. Not the present. Not that present.

Still, I waited. Maybe he saved it for our weekend dinner gathering. Perhaps he prepared another surprise.

Nothing arrived.

The closet was searched again a few days later.

The black box vanished.

It wasn’t mentioned. I couldn’t. I wanted a gentler belief than suspicion. Women like me live by choosing hope, even as it decays in our hands.

Months passed. No skirt. No mention.

Jamie arrived.

It was Wednesday afternoon. I prepared wedding taster samples in the kitchen, elbow-deep in lemon zest and sticky sugar. Jamie entered with unkempt hair and worried eyes.

Voice low, he said, “Mom?”

I turned. His tone sounded strange, like something within him had twisted.

Sweetie, what’s wrong?

“It’s about the skirt.”

Catching my breath.

“What about it?”

“Please don’t be mad,” he urged, ascending a stool.

Set down my whisk, I sat across from him.

You showed Dad, I recall. Remember our mall visit? Got that gigantic blue slushie. Dad doubled back to purchase it while I watched.”

I nodded quietly.

Saying “Okay,” he proceeded. “A few months ago, I skipped school. Few periods. I returned home to get my skateboard. I assumed you were home early, then I heard voices.

My stomach sank.

“I thought it was you and Dad, but something felt wrong. Never home before closing. So I hid—under your bed.”

He avoided my gaze.

I observed Dad’s brown dress shoes. Very high heels. I noticed her legs. Mom, she wore that skirt.”

Whole body cooled.

“I didn’t see her face,” he said hastily. It was impossible from where I was. I knew it wasn’t you.”

Reached for him. And he fell into my arms.

My boy. Dragged into something he never wanted to see, my handsome kid.

I clutched him, resisting the pain behind my eyes. But inside? I was splintering within.

We threw Mark’s birthday celebration four days later.

Yes, we did. “There’s no one else I’d trust with the dessert table,” he remarked.

I catered, leased a bar, and created his favorite cake—dark chocolate with hazelnut cream and raspberry coulis. The ideal marriage fantasy.

My navy wrap dress and shoes pinched after 20 minutes. I grinned. I mixed. Silly jokes made me chuckle and clink drinks.

Jamie pulled my sleeve throughout the celebration.

“That’s her, mom,” he muttered. She’s wearing crimson lipstick. The same skirt.”

I turned.

It was Sabrina.

Assistant to Mark. She was always comforting, too familiar. Her soft-spoken husband Colin coached their daughter’s soccer squad.

Her skirt was cherry. My skirt.

And a necklace I praised months before.

My grasp on the cake pop tray tightened. I dropped it, crossed the room, and grinned.

“Sabrina! Beautiful skirt. You look lovely. You found it where?

Her eyes shifted. “Thank you! It was gift.”

“How lovely,” I responded gently. “From Colin?”

She paused. No, a work present. From Mark. Since the board meeting last quarter.”

Teeth tightened, I grinned wider.

“Funny. I saw a similar one at home. It disappeared before I could put it on.”

She froze.

Mark watched from across the room.

“Colin!” I phoned. Come join us. Mark, too.”

We four stood together. Sabrina held her wine glass. Colin looked confused. Mark… Mark looked like someone switched off the oxygen.

“I dreamed of that skirt,” I whispered. I thought Mark recalled something I enjoyed. I assumed he was focused. It vanished—poof! Like magic.”

Silence.

Mark continued, “I gifted it to Sabrina,” quietly. For her act. Thank you.”

“Exactly what performance are we celebrating?” Tipping my head, I asked. Was it the boardroom presentation or our bedroom noon trysts? Because she wore it there, too.”

Colin’s eyes widened. Gasped Sabrina.

People were watching. The music stopped. The room felt amber-frozen.

“Alina,” Mark said, advancing.

I raised my hand.

No sense denying. A witness exists.”

Pale Sabrina. Colin stared between us, realizing.

“I never suspected…,” he muttered.

I replied, “We shared meals,” voice tense. I chuckled with you both. Trusted you. Who knew treachery could wear perfume and spread salt over my table?

Sabrina spoke, but I stopped her.

Don’t bother. I know plenty. And worse—my kid knows.”

“You dragged Jamie in?” Mark growled.

“No. You did,” I spat. “He saw. He heard. He was in the home while you thought nobody was. His hiding place was beneath the bed.”

Gasps. A drink fell. Sabrina left, guilty.

I glanced at Colin, then visitors.

“I apologize for the scene,” I said. “But I’ve had enough pretending.”

I turned and left.

The celebration stopped soon after.

Mark attempted to talk to me later that night.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“I don’t believe that,” I answered. Even if I did—it doesn’t matter. Anyway, you injured me. You crushed our son’s heart.

“I erred.”

“No. You decided.”

“I love her not.”

“Why give her something for me?”

He said nothing.

I want a divorce, Mark.”

“Alina—please—”

“No,” I answered. “I want that.”

We filed softly. No prolonged litigation. He got a little flat. I heard Sabrina rejoined her parents. Colin filed for divorce.

“I saw her crying at work,” a coworker said weeks later. “Apparently, Colin expelled her that night.”

Jamie inquired whether I was alright.

Telling him the truth.

“I will.”

And I was.

I woke up early because I wanted to. I walked the dog at morning. I made sugar roses. I accepted a weekend vacation with old pals. I laughed again.

I stopped adding a table seat.

Jamie occasionally sees his dad. Not frequently. He never mentions it, and I don’t ask.

Yes, I purchased that skirt. Every hue they had.

I am the one who will treat me now.