The first time my husband told me to prepare our home for his mistress, he was sitting at our kitchen island, eating the last piece of cheesecake I had bought for my birthday.

He didn’t look guilty.

He didn’t look nervous.

He didn’t even have the decency to pretend that what he was about to say required a little tact.

“Vesna is moving in on Saturday,” he announced, scrolling through his phone. “She’ll need the guest suite. And I want you to make sure everything is ready before she arrives.”

I stood beside the coffee machine, holding a mug I had forgotten to fill.

“Vesna?” I repeated.

He sighed as if I were a child who had failed to understand a simple instruction.

“Yes, Vesna. My friend from work. She just had a baby, and she’s having a difficult time. She needs somewhere comfortable to stay while she gets herself together.”