‘You’re boring, and you smell like breast milk,’ my husband sneered as he packed his bags to move into a penthouse with his model girlfriend. I just smiled and continued feeding our son. He didn’t know that the ‘boring’ wife he left was actually the daughter of the city’s most feared mob boss, living in hiding. When I made one phone call to my father, his penthouse dream turned into a nightmare within an hour.
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“Can you move? You’re blocking the mirror.”
The words were spoken with a casual cruelty that had become the soundtrack of my life for the past six months. My husband, Kevin, nudged me aside with his hip, his eyes fixed firmly on his own reflection. I stumbled slightly, clutching our three-month-old son, Leo, closer to my chest.
I was standing in the hallway of our cramped, two-bedroom apartment, the air thick with the scent of boiled carrots and baby powder. I was wearing my “uniform”: an oversized t-shirt stained with spit-up, gray sweatpants that had lost their elasticity, and a messy bun that was slowly unraveling, strand by greasy strand.
Kevin, on the other hand, looked like he had just stepped out of a GQ editorial. He was dressed in a charcoal Italian wool suit, a Rolex Submariner glinting under the harsh hallway light, and his hair was gelled into a stiff, perfect wave. On the bed behind him lay a Louis Vuitton suitcase—an extravagant gift I had bought him for our anniversary last year by secretly skipping lunches and saving grocery money for six months.
