My Husband Stole My Voice for His Mistress

I wrote the grocery list on the kitchen counter at nine in the morning. Eggs. Bread. Almond milk. The pen moved across the paper in careful strokes. Five years of silence had made my handwriting better. Neater. I pressed too hard on the period after 'milk' and the paper tore a little.

The house was quiet. It was always quiet. Finnegan needed quiet.

I picked up the notepad and walked through the living room. Sunlight came through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bright and expensive. The Hollywood Hills spread out below like a postcard. Everything in this house was beautiful. The white leather sofa. The abstract art on the walls. The speakers built into the ceiling that played soft instrumental music at a volume Finnegan said was safe for him.

I had lived here for five years and I still moved through it like a guest.

In the bedroom I opened the closet and looked at the dress hanging on the door. Black. Simple. Finnegan picked it out last week for Melina Daniels's album launch party tonight. He held it up and smiled and said it would look perfect on me. I nodded and smiled back.

I always smiled back.

I pulled the dress off the hanger and laid it on the bed. Then I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. While the water heated up, I looked at myself in the mirror. Twenty-eight years old. Dark hair pulled back. Brown eyes that used to be brighter. I looked fine. I looked like someone's wife.

I didn't look like someone who used to sing.

The shower was hot. I stood under it and let the water run over my shoulders. I used to sing in the shower. Before the accident. Before Finnegan's diagnosis. Before I learned that my voice—any voice—could hurt him.

I pressed my palm against my throat. The scar tissue was still there. Five years and it still felt wrong.

When I got out, I dried off and got dressed. The black dress fit perfectly. I put on the diamond earrings Finnegan gave me for our anniversary. I looked elegant. I looked mute.

I walked back through the kitchen to get my notepad. The Bluetooth speaker on the counter was playing something soft. Piano. No words. Finnegan only allowed instrumental music in the house. Lyrics were too stimulating for his condition.

I reached for the notepad and the music cut out.

Then I heard Finnegan's voice.

Not from upstairs. From the speaker.

"—can't wait to see you tonight," he said. His voice was warm. Unhurried. Tender in a way that made my hand freeze above the counter.

A woman laughed. "You're terrible."

"I'm serious," Finnegan said. "That dress you described? I've been thinking about it all day."

The woman laughed again. Melina Daniels. I knew her voice. I'd heard it on the radio. On Finnegan's laptop. In this house.

"You'll have to behave tonight," Melina said. "Your wife will be there."

"Naomi won't be a problem," Finnegan said. The way he said my name—casual, dismissive—made something cold slide down my spine. "She never is."

They both laughed.

The speaker made a small click and the music came back on. Piano. Soft. Safe.

I stood very still. My hand was still reaching for the notepad. The grocery list was right there. Eggs. Bread. Almond milk.

I picked up the pen and wrote nothing.

Upstairs, I heard Finnegan's footsteps. The floor creaked. He was moving around in his office. He would come downstairs soon and smile at me and ask if I was ready for the party.

I set down the pen and walked to the window. The city spread out below. Bright. Loud. Full of people who could speak whenever they wanted.

I pressed my palm against the glass. It was cool. Solid.

Behind my eyes, something detonated. Silently. Completely.

I turned and looked at the speaker on the counter. Then I looked at the notepad. Five years of grocery lists. Five years of 'I love you' written instead of spoken. Five years of erasing myself one word at a time.

I walked back to the counter and picked up the pen.

At the bottom of the grocery list, below 'almond milk,' I wrote:

*I gave you my voice and you fed it to someone else.*

I stared at the words. My handwriting looked different. Sharper.

Upstairs, Finnegan's footsteps moved toward the stairs.

I tore the line off the bottom of the page. Folded it small. Slipped it into my shoe.

When Finnegan came into the kitchen, I was standing by the counter with the grocery list in my hand. Smiling.

"You look beautiful," he said. He kissed my forehead. His lips were warm. "Ready for tonight?"

I nodded.

He took the grocery list from my hand and glanced at it. "I'll pick these up tomorrow," he said. Then he smiled. "Let's go show you off."

I followed him to the car. The folded paper pressed against the bottom of my foot with every step.

I didn't stop smiling.