When My Husband Had Me Committed for His Mistress

She stood in the foyer with three suitcases and a belly that curved under her silk blouse like a statement.

I didn't move. Couldn't. My fingers were still wrapped around the handle of my own front door — except it wasn't mine anymore, was it? Not when Sierra Castro smiled at me like she'd been given the keys to a kingdom I didn't know I'd lost.

"Emberly," she said. Warm. Sympathetic. The voice she used in the office when someone's presentation ran long. "Dillon didn't tell you I was coming?"

I looked past her. Down the hall. Toward the bedroom where my husband — where Dillon — was probably on a call. Closing a deal. Pretending I didn't exist.

"No," I said. My voice came out thin. "He didn't."

Sierra's hand drifted to her stomach. A practiced gesture. She'd done it at the office too, during meetings, when she wanted everyone to remember what she was carrying.

Who she was carrying.

"Well." She stepped inside. Past me. Her perfume was different from mine. Sharper. "I'm sure he meant to. He's been so busy."

I watched her roll the largest suitcase toward the living room. She moved through the space like she'd memorized it. Like she'd been here before.

She had been here before.

I pressed my back against the door. The hallucination flickered at the corner of my vision — sixteen-year-old Dillon, the one with the soft eyes and the hoodie he never washed, standing by the window. He looked at me. Shook his head slowly.

*Don't let her stay.*

But I didn't say anything. I never did anymore.

Sierra set her purse on the dining table. My table. The one my mother had picked out years ago, before the accident, back when I still had a family that wasn't just Dillon.

"I hope you don't mind," Sierra said. She pulled out a chair. Not any chair. *My* chair. The one facing the window, where the light came in best in the mornings. "Dillon said I should make myself comfortable."

She sat.

I stared at her. At the way her hands folded over her belly. At the way she looked at me — not cruel, not even unkind. Just… patient. Like she was waiting for me to understand something she'd already figured out.

"Where—" I stopped. Swallowed. "Where am I supposed to sit?"

Sierra blinked. Tilted her head. "Oh, sweetie. Anywhere you like."

The boy by the window flickered again. His mouth moved. *Tell her to leave. Tell him to make her leave.*

But Dillon's voice came from down the hall before I could find mine.

"Sierra?" He sounded relieved. Happy, even. "You made it."

I turned. He walked into the living room in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened, phone still in his hand. He looked at her first. Smiled at her first.

Then he saw me.

The smile didn't exactly fade. It just… shifted. Became something else. Something polite and distant, like I was a colleague he'd forgotten to CC on an email.

"Emberly," he said. "Good. You're home."

"Dillon." My throat was tight. "What's happening?"

He glanced at Sierra. She gave him a small nod. Encouraging. The way you'd nod at a child about to recite something they'd practiced.

"Sierra's going to stay here for a while," he said. Casual. Like he was telling me we were out of milk. "The pregnancy's been hard on her. She needs somewhere stable."

"Stable," I repeated.

"Her apartment's a fourth-floor walk-up. It's not safe."

I looked at Sierra. At the way she sat in my chair, her hand on her belly, her eyes on Dillon like he was the only person in the room.

"This is my home," I said.

Dillon's jaw tightened. "It's my home too. And I'm telling you she's staying."

Something in my chest cracked. Not broke. It had broken a long time ago. This was just another fracture in something already ruined.

"For how long?"

"As long as she needs."

I stepped forward. My hands were shaking. "Dillon. Please."

He looked at me then. Really looked. And for a second — just a second — I thought I saw something. Guilt, maybe. Regret.

But then Sierra shifted in her chair, and his eyes went back to her.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," he said.

I reached for his arm. My fingers closed around his wrist. Tight. Desperate.

"Dillon—"

He pulled back. Hard. His hand caught mine, wrenched it away, and my sleeve slid up.

We both saw them.

The scars. Thin white lines across my inner wrist. Some old. Some new. Some still pink.

Dillon stared. His grip loosened. For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he let go.

"Jesus, Emberly," he said. Quiet. Disgusted. "Stop embarrassing yourself."

He walked past me. Toward Sierra. Toward the woman in my chair.

I stood there, my sleeve still pushed up, my wrist burning where he'd grabbed it.

Sierra looked at me. Her expression was soft. Sympathetic.

She smiled.

That night, I sat in the guest bedroom. The one we used to keep for visitors we never had.

The boy appeared beside me. Sixteen. Hoodie. Eyes that still knew how to be kind.

"Don't listen to him," he whispered. "He's not me. He's not me anymore."

I knew he wasn't real.

I talked to him anyway.

It was the only conversation I had left.