And this began when I turned into an aisle, eyes scanning the shelves for anything I needed or just wanted in my pantry, and I felt the hairs stand on end at the nape of my neck.

I looked down the aisle and froze when I saw my daughter, Olympia, with her stepmother, Martine.

I took in my pretty girl and then trained my gaze on Martine.

It had not been lost on me that my husband had a type.

Thus Martine Moss was a younger version of me.

And standing there staring at her in her fabulous outfit (but for once, mine was so much better) with her thick dark hair a cloud around her pixie face, her big green eyes round and pinned on me, this fact yet again did not escape me.

What also didn’t escape me was that her mouth was hanging open.

As was my daughter’s.

Honestly, as I’d wanted to do every time I saw Martine, my first inclination was to walk right up to her and slap her across the face.

But I’d never done that.

This time, I didn’t do it either.

I also didn’t do what I might normally do, which was cause an unholy scene.

What I did was stroll their way, stop and look to my daughter.

“Hey, honey,” I said quietly.

With visible effort, she shifted her astonished face to bored and mumbled, “Mom.”

I looked to Martine. “Martine.”

She also shifted her stunned expression but hers hardened and she said nothing.

I let that go and looked back to my daughter. “Good to see you, Pippa.” I tipped my head down and smiled. “Like your shorts.”

She just glared at me.

I took that and kept smiling at her. “Looking forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, casting her gaze to the floor.

I took that too and said softly, “Enjoy your day, sweets.” She didn’t look at me so I looked to Martine. “You too,” I said and wanted to twist myself into a knot in order to pat my own back that it came out (almost) like I meant it.

Then I turned to the aisle and started pushing my cart away.

I stopped when Martine snapped, “Seriously?”

I kept facing forward but twisted their way. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you honestly believe we’re gonna fall for your crap?” she asked, and she’d twisted too.

Not her body.

Her face.

I stared at her and with tardy but blazing clarity something struck me.

Not once. Not twice. Not rarely. But nearly always.

She goaded me.

She did not simper and shrink away. Even if I was only in the mood to lob spit balls, she returned fire with poisoned arrows. She had stolen my husband, and from the beginning she never hesitated once to go after me.