The Tree of Knowledge

Mara hates me. Always has. I get it. Maybe if I were in her position I’d hate me too. Her and Ryan had been married for thirty years when he married me.

Mara is old. She’s wrinkly. Her hair is going grey. Her tits sag.

Women her age used to be bitter divorcees whose husbands had dumped them for a younger model. Now they kept the old model around to watch while they showered affection on the younger (girl) woman. I was there every day, taunting her with everything she could never be again. Young. Hot. Tight.

In principle, we were supposed to be sharing, but in practice, I was stealing her husband. And she had to watch.

No wonder she’s so bitter. It must be Hell.

But that doesn’t give her the right to treat me like crap. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want it. I don’t want him to touch me. She can have him.

I’m not sure she wants him back either. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people less in love than them. When he kisses me in front of her, I think it’s deliberate. I think he does it to hurt her.

On my wedding day, she was my maid of honor. For an hour before the ceremony she helped me get ready. She helped me into my long white dress with lace sleeves and pearl buttons. She brushed my hair, affixed my veil, and applied my make up. In that entire hour, she did not speak to me once.

I tried to make conversation for the first ten minutes or so. I said hi. I told her it was nice to meet her. I asked about her. About our husband. What our house was like.

Silence.

So I gave up.

And I was so scared. And I didn’t want to marry him but I knew it’d be a sin not to. Hell scared me more than getting married did, but maybe not by much. Standing there, just about to walk down the aisle, I started to cry. Mara shook me.

“Stop it.” She commanded. “You’ll mess up your make up.”