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The day I lost our eight-week-old baby, my husband's assistant refused to let me speak to him because it wasn't my scheduled fifteen minutes. I was lying in an ambulance after a terrible car accident, bleeding and struggling to breathe, when she reminded me that my husband did not accept personal calls before eight o'clock. Hours later, I saw that same assistant leaving the hospital with him after a routine checkup, while I could barely stand without assistance. And when my husband learned she'd refused my emergency call, his response destroyed whatever was left of our marriage.
My mother-in-law smashed a three-thousand-dollar porcelain plate against the marble kitchen floor and ordered me to clean it up while my husband prepared to take his mistress to Miami's biggest charity gala. I stood beside the sink with rubber gloves on my hands, watching expensive pieces scatter across the marble. Eleanor Whitmore pointed at the mess and told me a good wife should know how to keep her husband's home presentable. Seven years of marriage had taught me to recognize the contempt behind her polished smile. But that evening, I was about to discover just how little my husband and his mother understood about the woman they had spent years treating like a servant.