A Birkin For Every Lie

There are ninety-nine Hermès Birkins sitting in my walk-in closet.

To the world, it' s a collection worth millions. To me, it' s a tally of ninety-nine times my husband, Harris, betrayed me.

Each bag was a silent apology I accepted to keep our hollow marriage alive.

But the hundredth betrayal wasn't fixed with crocodile leather.

On the anniversary of my mother's death, I tracked Harris to my family' s private cemetery.

He wasn't alone. Jessica, his "first love," was there, standing over the empty plot reserved for my living father, right next to my mother' s grave.

They were digging a hole.

Jessica smirked, holding a velvet box containing her dead cat and a plaque that read To Arvel, my eternal companion.

"It' s just a cat, Cecily," she laughed, tossing her hair.

"Don't be so dramatic. Your father won't mind the company. Besides, it shows who Harris really listens to."

For years, I accepted the bags and the lies. But desecrating my family's sacred ground?

The submissive wife died in that moment.

I walked toward them, clutching the evidence that would destroy Jessica' s life and shatter Harris' s world.

"Dig it up," I commanded, my voice colder than the grave.

"Or I will bury you both right here."