A lipstick.

A lipstick that’s not mine.

The shade too red, too hot, too sexy for yours truly to actually consider buying. I wear neutral colored lip glosses in flirty shades with names like “Summer Rivers” and “Spring Break”. This is a full-blown Marilyn Monroe lipstick. What the hell is it doing here?

It’s tempting me to spear a steak knife into my husband’s chest. That’s what it’s doing.

I decide the best course of action is not, in fact, to call him during his training camp in Colorado and yell at him until every vocal cord in my throat tears apart. It is very early in the morning in California, but I know my mama in Louisiana is already up and going about her day. I dial her number, turning my back on Elle’s room so she won’t see her mommy crying. The tears are skating down my cheeks in fat, salty drops.

How could he do this to me?

Childhood friends. College sweethearts. Undeniable soulmates. Since we got together four years ago, we’ve been nothing but lovey-dovey. Call me a fool, but I never thought he’d cheat on me. It always seemed like he only had eyes for me.

I moved to California for him.

I said goodbye to my family for him.

I turned my back on my dream to become a teacher so he could focus on his career.

All.

For.

Him.

“Hello? Honey pie?” Mama chirps and, just like that, my chest crumbles as I heave out a sob.

“Sage is cheating on me,” the words tumble from my mouth, and I let all the anger and panic building inside me loose. It’s like a river now, no longer coming in trickling drips and drops. I’m mentally rummaging through the catalog of women we have coming into our house on a regular basis as I clutch the lipstick like a weapon. I have friends. Lots of them, actually. I invite them here frequently. But none of them wear a red lipstick. We usually chill in our Lululemons during playdates, drink wine, and try to keep all the children in one piece. Think less The Duchess of Cambridge and more Cameron Diaz leaving Equinox. Still cute, but in a non-threatening way.

“Jolie…” Mama trails off, a mixture of shock and warning in her voice. “No, honey. There is just no way.”

“There is, apparently. I found a stranger’s lipstick in my house. So tacky.”

“Mommy?” Elle is standing at the door, holding onto her Hello Kitty rain jacket, with the ears on the hoodie and everything. “Why are you sad?”

I wipe my eyes hurriedly, mentally maiming myself for not holding myself together longer, until I dropped her off. “I’m not sad, baby. I’m happy. We’re going to get you a chicken family.” I haven’t discussed it with Sage yet, but screw Sage. “Now let’s get you into that jacket.”

“Jolie?” Mama barks from the other line. Great. “Jolie? I need to know what is happening right now!”

But it’s too late. I mumble a brief goodbye and tuck my phone into my back pocket. I help Elle into her jacket and drive her to school, where I don’t know how, but I manage to sit through a thorough examination of a Barbie doll’s anatomy, as conducted by Elle and her friend Staci. Let’s just say both girls’ futures as OB/GYNs is secured, in case their masterplan to become astronaut ballerinas doesn’t pan out.

Once I step out of my daughter’s class, my phone begins buzzing in my pocket. I pluck it out.

Sage.

I want to take the call and tell him that he is a bastard of the highest degree, but instead, I let the call die. I need to collect my scattered thoughts before I hear him out. I’m too angry and confused. One moment I think it is all done and dusted, and our marriage is over, and the other, I inwardly laugh at myself for jumping to such an idiotic conclusion.

And so, I plan to deal with this matter in the same fashion every grown-up woman does—I am going to get shitfaced at home and wait for the problem to solve itself.

On my way back home (screw yoga. Apparently, life happens when you Shavasana for eight straight minutes in a boiling hot room), I kill three more attempts by Sage to call me. Two more by Mama. It is obvious there is a correlation between the two. She told him. Good. I know it’s only a matter of time until the text messages start pouring in. Of course, there may be a plausible explanation for the lipstick. But the thing is, for some reason that is beyond me right now, I want to be mad. And angry. And unreasonable. Another thing I want: ice cream. No. I need ice cream. Like a flower needs the sun and Taylor Swift needs to stop dating douchebags. The urge is real.