Chapter 4 of My Husband Used Our Rent Money on His Mistress

I opened a new document on my laptop. Sunday morning. Jett was still asleep in the guest room. The baby napped in her crib. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic on Elliott Avenue.

At the top of the page, I typed my name. Edith Carlson. Then I stopped. I stared at it. Five years of marriage and I'd never changed my name legally. Jett had said it was easier this way. 'Less paperwork,' he'd said. 'We'll do it later.'

Later never came.

I deleted the line and started again.

I listed my degree first. Textile Engineering, University of Washington, summa cum laude. Then my current position. Chemical Process Engineer, Hawthorne Industrial. Five years. I wrote the projects I'd led. The quality improvements I'd implemented. The cost reductions I'd calculated.

I did not write: Ghost-wrote the proprietary formula that won Jett Watkins Employee of the Year.

I did not write: Paid his mother's medical bills while he bought his mistress jewelry.

I wrote what I could prove. What I had done. What I was worth.

When I finished, the document was two pages. Clean. Precise. No wasted words.

I saved it. I opened a new browser window. I typed: Sterling Textile Corp.

Their website loaded. Crisp. Professional. A photo of their main facility in Tacoma—modern glass and steel, nothing like Hawthorne's aging concrete complex. I clicked on Careers.

Senior Textile Engineer. Posted three days ago. Requirements: Bachelor's in Textile or Chemical Engineering, five years' experience in manufacturing environments, expertise in fiber analysis and material stress testing.

I read the description twice. Then I attached my resume and wrote a cover letter in twenty minutes. I did not overthink it. I stated my qualifications. I provided my contact information. I clicked Submit.

The confirmation page appeared. Thank you for your application. You will hear from us within two weeks.

I closed the laptop.

That night, I pulled my old textbooks from the shelf. Polymer Chemistry. Fiber Science. Material Stress Analysis. I hadn't opened them in three years. The pages were still marked with my notes from college—diagrams, formulas, questions I'd written to myself in the margins.

I spread them across the kitchen table. I started reading.

Jett walked past on his way to the bathroom. He glanced at the books. 'Spring cleaning?'

'Something like that,' I said.

He shrugged and kept walking.

I read until midnight. Then I made a list of topics I needed to review. Tensile strength calculations. Thermal degradation patterns. Quality control protocols. I wrote practice problems in my notebook. I solved them step by step, checking my work twice.

The baby cried at two a.m. I nursed her in the dark. When she fell back asleep, I didn't go to bed. I went back to the kitchen. I kept reading.

Seven days later, my phone rang. Unknown number. Seattle area code.

I answered. 'This is Edith.'

'Ms. Carlson, this is Flora Wood from Sterling Textile Corp. We received your application for the Senior Textile Engineer position. We'd like to invite you for an interview. Are you available Thursday at ten?'

I looked at my work calendar. I had a project meeting Thursday at ten. I'd been on that project for six months. Jett was the lead.

'Yes,' I said. 'I'm available.'

'Excellent. Plan for about three hours. You'll meet with our engineering panel and complete a technical assessment. I'll send the details by email.'

'Thank you,' I said.

She hung up.

I sat on the couch. My hands were steady. My chest felt light.

I opened my work email. I wrote to Jett: *Can't make Thursday's meeting. Personal appointment. Can you cover my section?*

He replied in five minutes. *Sure.*

Thursday morning, I put on my best shirt. Navy blue. No wrinkles. I drove to Tacoma. The Sterling Textile facility was twice the size of Hawthorne, surrounded by landscaped grounds and a parking lot full of new cars.

I walked into the lobby. Glass walls. Bright light. A receptionist smiled at me. 'You must be Ms. Carlson. They're ready for you in Conference Room A.'

Three people sat at the table. Two men, one woman. All in their fifties. All with engineering degrees framed on the wall behind them.

Flora Wood stood by the door. She shook my hand. 'Thank you for coming. This is our senior engineering panel. We'll start with some questions about your background, then move to a technical assessment.'

I sat down. They asked about my projects at Hawthorne. I described the quality improvements I'd implemented. The cost reductions. The process optimizations. I did not mention Jett's name once.

Then they handed me a problem. A fabric sample. A set of stress test results. A question: *Given these parameters, what would you recommend to improve tensile strength without increasing production cost?*

I read the data. I picked up the pen. I worked through the problem on the whiteboard—calculations, diagrams, my reasoning laid out step by step. When I finished, I set down the pen.

The woman on the panel leaned forward. 'That's the same solution our lead engineer proposed. It took him two days. You did it in twenty minutes.'

I didn't smile. I just nodded.

They asked more questions. I answered them all. When the interview ended, Flora walked me to the lobby.

'We'll complete the background check and be in touch within three weeks,' she said.

I shook her hand. 'Thank you.'

I drove home. I didn't feel excited. I didn't feel nervous. I felt clear.

Three weeks later, my phone rang again. Flora Wood.

'Ms. Carlson, your background check came back clean. Your technical assessment was the strongest our panel has seen in four years. We'd like to offer you the position.'

I stood in the kitchen. The baby played on the floor. Jett was at work.

'What's the start date?' I asked.

'We're flexible. What works for you?'

I thought about Jett's promotion banquet. It was scheduled for three weeks out. The company had rented a hotel ballroom. Jett had bought a new suit.

'Four weeks from today,' I said.

One week after the banquet.

'Perfect,' Flora said. 'I'll send the offer letter this afternoon. Welcome to Sterling Textile, Ms. Carlson.'

I hung up. I picked up my baby. I held her close.

'We're going to be okay,' I whispered.

She grabbed my finger and smiled.

I pulled out my textbook. I opened the folder. I added one more page.

At the top, I wrote: *Sterling Textile Corp.—Senior Textile Engineer—Start date confirmed.*