My husband’s mistress lives in the same building—right down the hall.

The last time we rode the elevator together, I glanced at her swollen belly and the grocery bags hanging from her arms and said generously, “You’re carrying my husband’s child and still taking care of his meals and daily needs. That’s a lot of work—so don’t worry about the rent.”

…

I had leafy greens and radishes in my left hand, chicken and fish in my right, bags upon bags. When I saw the elevator doors about to close, I hurried and called out, “Wait—wait!”

In my slippers, I half-ran, half-shuffled, and squeezed in at the very last second.

There was only one person inside: a stunningly made-up woman dressed to the nines. She lived in 1908. She was also my tenant—an internet-famous livestreamer named Lilian Nash.

I turned to her and greeted her naturally. “Lilian, you’re home early today.”

Her smile was tight, almost forced. “Elena! Sorry—I didn’t see you.”

I chuckled, unconcerned. “It’s fine.”

Her gaze swept over me from head to toe. “Sister Chen… you went grocery shopping looking like this?”

I glanced at the dried bloodstain on my white T-shirt, then turned to face the elevator doors. Ignoring the contempt in her eyes, I stared at my own disheveled reflection and grinned. “Yeah. Clara’s coming home tonight.”

After a moment of silence, she spoke again. “Is that so? Then Mr. Frost will be home early tonight too, won’t he?”

I lowered my lashes, smiling as if I couldn’t help it. “Of course. Julian adores Clara. If she calls him, he’ll come running back—no matter what. That’s what fathers do.”

After a beat, her voice floated from behind me. “Heh. Sounds like their relationship is really close.”

My eyes curved with a smile. “It is. So close I get jealous sometimes, and I’m her mother.” I sighed dramatically. “Too bad…”

“Too bad what?” She asked quickly—too quickly.

My gaze dimmed. I let out a soft, regretful breath. “Too bad Julian likes boys best, and…”

The elevator doors slid open, cutting me off.

A middle-aged woman stepped in, her hair neatly pinned up, her outfit elegant as always. Iris Grove—Unit 2605. Still single. And one of the few people in this complex who actually treated me like a friend.

The moment she saw me, she burst out laughing. “Elena—look at you. Don’t tell me you went to the market again and fought those aunties for the discount meat.”

She walked in without sparing Lilian so much as a glance. Coming straight to my side, she lifted a hand and smoothed my messy hair, like she’d done it a thousand times. “Seriously, was it worth it? You’re Mrs. Frost—the general manager’s wife of Frost Group—and you’re out there wrestling for a few pounds of cheap vegetables and meat, making yourself look like this. Someone who didn’t know you would think you were some crazy woman off the street.”

I pressed the button for our floor, then lifted the chicken in my hand like proof. “Iris, Clara’s coming home today. I got up early just to grab this old hen. I’m making chicken soup tonight. Why don’t you come over—”

Before I could finish, she cut me off. “No, no, no. I’m not being the third wheel in your family reunion.” Then, with a sidelong glance over my shoulder, she added flatly, “Go put yourself together.”

Ding.

Nineteenth floor.

Iris and I stepped aside. Lilian swayed out of the elevator, hips rolling, her posture practically screaming victory.

As soon as the doors shut, Iris clicked her tongue in disgust.

I hid the darkness in my eyes and smiled instead. “What’s with you?”

Iris looked at me like she was carrying a grudge on my behalf. “You…” She swallowed whatever she wanted to say. “Forget it. You’re here.”

I glanced up.

Twenty-second floor.

I hurried out. “I’m going, then!”

Back home, I neatly packed the groceries into the fridge, moving fast. I fried two eggs, arranged the bread I’d bought on a plate, and carried it out to the dining table. Then I ladled out a bowl of the porridge I’d been simmering since morning…

Once everything was finally taken care of, Julian finished washing up and sat down at the dining table for breakfast.

I sat across from him. “Clara’s coming back this afternoon. Did you know?”

Julian swallowed the bread in his mouth, finished the bowl of porridge, then pulled out a napkin and wiped his lips before replying, “I know. I’ll come home early this afternoon.”

After that, he stood, got dressed neatly, and left—without sparing me so much as a second glance.

As always, I finished my breakfast, threw the clothes into the washing machine, and started tidying up the house, cleaning every corner inside and out…

By the time all the chores were done, it was already close to noon.

I glanced down at the bloodstains on my clothes and only then remembered to change.

In the mirror, I barely recognized myself—hair a mess, face bare, looking worn out and neglected. For a moment, I felt strangely dazed.

How long had it been since I’d put on makeup, since I’d dressed up?

How long had it been since I’d had any time that was just mine?

Probably since Clara was born.

After Clara, my skin lost its firmness, turning dull and sallow. My body changed, warped into something I didn’t recognize.

Clara had been premature. I didn’t trust a nanny with her, and breast milk was the best nutrition, so naturally, I set the company aside and stayed home to raise her.

With a baby constantly crying to be fed, there was suddenly so much more to do—nursing, changing diapers, wiping her down, bathing her, washing clothes, watching her every moment. It took nearly all my time. I had no room left to care about how I looked.

And then, like so many married women, my days became nothing but children, family, and the endless cycle of daily necessities. Little by little, I turned into what everyone called a “washed-up housewife.”

Julian Frost went from tender devotion to distance… and now, even impatience and disdain.

I stared at my rough hands and thought of Iris’s slender, delicate ones. Maybe Iris was the one who truly understood how to live.

That evening, Julian came home unusually early. In front of Clara, he was rare in his attentiveness—asking if I was cold, saying a few domestic, ordinary things.

Only when Clara was home did I feel like his wife instead of a nanny.

I carried the last dish—stir-fried greens—to the table and sat down. Julian took a phone call, then, with guilt written all over his face, he stroked Clara’s head.

“Clara, something urgent came up at the company. I have to go. Daddy will spend time with you tomorrow, okay?”

“What?” Clara protested. “Dad, what could be so urgent? Can’t you at least finish dinner first? Mom worked so hard to make all this. If you’re not here, it just doesn’t feel right.”

At that, he turned and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Then he stood and hurried out the door.

“Dad—!”

Clara’s voice was swallowed by the sound of it closing.

I sat frozen, fingertips brushing the damp spot on my cheek. The warmth lingered, but my heart was ice-cold—because in the instant he kissed me, I saw it.

Disgust.

After all these years of marriage, this was what I’d earned—his disgust.

If he was disgusted, then why kiss me at all?

I looked at Clara. He just needed to perform the role of a good husband in front of her.

Clara sank back into her seat, her eyes clouded, her words hesitant. “Mom… is Dad really…?”

I stared at her, startled, and let out a bitter laugh. “Where did you hear that?”

Clara’s face flushed bright red. “Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about it. How could I not know?” Then she huffed, angry and impatient. “You’re the only one still pretending you don’t hear it, fooling yourself. Mom—should we go rip the mistress apart? I’ll go with you. We can’t just let this slide!”

I couldn’t help asking her, “Clara… do men just naturally like younger, prettier women? Or is it that they always want something new?”

Clara—way too sharp for her age—nodded seriously. “Yeah. That’s men’s rotten nature.”

I gave a bitter little laugh. “So you want to go tear that mistress apart—then what? Your dad won’t just go find another one somewhere else? There are so many young, pretty girls out there. Do you think we can fight them all off?”

Besides, it’s better if she’s right under my nose. At least then I know what’s happening. But I didn’t say that.

Clara’s voice turned sharp with impatience. “Mom, then what are we supposed to do?”

I said evenly, “The key has never been her. It’s always been your father.”

Clara looked lost for a moment. “Dad? But Dad…” Then she glanced at me again. “Mom, I’m just saying—you should really dress yourself up.”

I looked at her. “How?”

Clara thought about it. “Like Iris. Look at how she dresses. She’s in her forties, but her figure and her vibe still make people look twice. If you were like Iris, Dad wouldn’t go looking outside.”

In the end, he was still her father. She still couldn’t bring herself to blame him. I couldn’t help the sarcasm that slipped out.

“Mom’s hips got wider because I had you. My stomach got loose. My breasts changed shape because I nursed you. I stopped working to take care of you—every day I was exhausted, running myself ragged between formula and diapers, three meals a day, and all the little chores that never end. If I were like your Iris, with full makeup and manicures, who would wash your clothes, cook your meals, and keep the house together?”

“Mom…” Clara lowered her head, guilt all over her face. She came around and wrapped her arms tightly around me. “Mom, I’m sorry. I just… I just think it’s not fair to you. Dad, he…”

I patted her hand gently. “I’m not blaming you. It just reminded me of something. Someone once asked me—when you grow old and your youth is gone, will that man still love you the same?”

Clara asked, curious, “Who said that?”

My eyes drifted, unfocused. “An old friend of mine.”

“…Maybe I really do need to change.”

The next morning, I pulled out a set of workout clothes. I’d bought it last year while grocery shopping, but I’d never worn it. I never had time to exercise or go for morning runs.

Today, I put it on. I tied my hair up high and swiped on a simple coat of lipstick. Instantly, I looked more awake—more alive.

I went to wake Clara. She blinked at me, still half asleep. “Mom, what are you doing up so early?”

I pulled her up. “Want to go running with me?”

“Running?” Clara stared at me, startled, and her sleepiness vanished. “Mom, you’re not going to the market?”

I shook my head. “No. Didn’t you want me to change? We’re going running. Starting today, I’m working out—going to get rid of this belly.”

Clara’s eyes lit up. She scrambled out of bed and grabbed her own workout clothes. “Mom, you should’ve done this a long time ago!”

She tugged me out the door, practically bouncing with excitement. Right before we left, she hesitated and asked, “Dad, he…”

I gave a flat little hum. “Let him sleep. He didn’t come home until the middle of the night.”

Clara’s expression tightened. “Then forget him.”

We ran two laps around the complex. On the way, we passed a few familiar older neighbors, and they looked at me with obvious surprise.

I knew exactly what they were thinking. At this hour, I was supposed to be at the market, rushing to grab meat and vegetables. So why was I jogging around like I had all the time in the world?

I ignored their stares, smiled, and greeted them one by one.

After the run, I took Clara to a restaurant and we ate breakfast at our own pace.

Sitting there, I suddenly realized it had been so long since I’d sat down like this—calmly, unhurried—enjoying a proper morning meal.

Every morning, I used to get up at six. Before I even washed up, I’d go straight into the kitchen, rinse the rice, and put it into the electric clay pot, set the timer, and let it slowly simmer.