Una wanted to tell her husband that she was tired of being taken for granted.
She wanted to tell him that her heart no long beat as rapidly as it used to when she was around him.
She wanted to tell him that she knew about the waitress at the diner, and the girl from the New Year’s Eve party. He was sloppy about covering his tracks.
She wanted to tell him that she had strayed as well (though she’d done a better job of hiding it) and had been enjoying the company of one of her colleagues for almost two months now.
She wanted to tell him that she loved their daughter dearly, but it wouldn’t be enough to hold their marriage together.
She wanted to scream at him, to curse at him until her voice turned hoarse, to let out every frustration she’d dealt with for the past 12 years.
But Una said nothing.
When her husband came home from work, an hour after she did (she knew why), she greeted him with a dutiful smile and a perfunctory kiss.
She let him wrap her in a constricting embrace, her body trained not to recoil from the stink of booze on his breath.
And without a word, she plunged the cold steel blade right between his ribs.