The social scandal alone isn’t good for people of their age. Will they visit Betsy in prison? I’m getting ahead of myself, of course. Betsy won’t go to prison. How ridiculous. We’ll get her a good lawyer. Rich people don’t get locked up, at least not most of the time.

I stare at the ugly rooster pitcher again. I hate the thing. I pick it up and hurl it toward the sink. It crashes into the sink—half in, half out—and shatters into a satisfying array of ceramic shards. David will get the message. This is what happens when you break your marriage vows. Things start to shatter.

The scene reminds me of the broken wineglass the other day. I dropped it on purpose, of course. Hoping to elicit a caring response from David. I wanted to see if he felt anything for me at all anymore.

And he proved he still does. He swept up the glass and took care of me, even if he did leave for her house shortly after. But still, there is something between us. A small flickering flame where there once was a roaring fire.

He’ll turn to me, I know he will, when things unravel. We’ve been together for so long. Sure, he’s strayed, but he’ll come back to me soon. He won’t have any other choice. Goodbye, Kylie/Nancy. And then, when he’s lost everything, when he finally needs me again, I’ll go in for the final knockout blow. I’ll move to LA and leave him all alone. Heartsick. Miserable. Destroyed.

I walk across the littered kitchen floor. The hard stone helped create sharp, tiny pieces. As I walk across them with my tennis shoes, I hear the satisfying crunch. Hopefully, David will be in a happy mood again when he arrives home and he’ll clean up after my latest accident. One night to go before he thinks he’s free, so I bet he’ll be happy to make sure the kitchen is in good shape for his last day here with us, his family. I can just imagine David and Betsy celebrating her graduation by eating breakfast together tomorrow morning, despite the fact it’s a meal she says she doesn’t eat anymore but does when David asks her. Frustrating.

I hope I’ve set things into motion. I’m counting on my hunch that Kylie won’t open the letter in front of him, counting on her to be like me. Putting my faith in my husband’s mistress, such an odd thing, isn’t it?

I need to change into sweatpants, wash the makeup from my face. I wasn’t playing tennis tonight, of course not, family. I have been home all night, as far as they’re concerned, just waiting for them to join me.

They’re so clueless.