My Husband’s Mistress Wore My Missing Versace Dress To My Father’s Funeral. Sat In The Family Row. Held My Husband’s Hand. “I’m Practically Family Now,” She Announced. The Lawyer Began Reading The Will: “To My Daughter Diane, Who Called Me Yesterday About Her Husband’s Affair…” My Husband Went Pale. The Mistress Rained.

It wasn’t a look of confusion or surprise at my arrival, but the raw, naked guilt of a man who had finally been caught in a corner. The walls of the basilica seemed to press in on me, and the air suddenly tasted like copper and old dust.

Every late night he spent at the office and every weekend golf trip he took started to click into place in my mind like a series of falling dominos. “Why are you wearing my dress, Audrey?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to draw the attention of the surrounding pews.

Nobody offered an answer immediately, which provided more clarity than any excuse they could have possibly invented in that moment. Audrey crossed her legs and gave a tiny, nonchalant shrug that sent the silk rippling against her knee.

I knew that garment so well I could see where the seams had been adjusted at the waist to fit her slightly smaller frame. “Oh, this old thing?” she said with a tilt of her head. “Miles gave it to me because he told me you hadn’t touched it in a year.”