Weeping At The Feet Of Jesus

 Prologue: Lies and Lambos

In the quaint, suburban neighborhood of Glenbrook, the sound of glass shattering resonated in the otherwise tranquil streets. Curious neighbors peeked outside their curtains, trying to get a glimpse of what all the noise was about. A dog barked, frightened by the screams. Something that looked like a picture frame flew out the window of the house at the end of the block. It was a picture of a young couple, smiling on their wedding day. Another picture was hurled out of that same window.

Inside the cozy house, a beautiful middle aged housewife was raging about. The woman walked back and forth in the kitchen, heavily sobbing and shaking with anger. She hurled a Swedish tea cup at the wall. How dare he? Her fiery eyes swept the living room, searching for anything else her husband had given her to smash in a million pieces. 'Just like my heart' she briefly thought, before she snatched up one of her husband's golf clubs and headed outside to his navy Lamborghini.

The nosy neighbors' eyes widened as they spotted her, coming out of the lavish home with golf clubs. One, a driver. The other, a wedge. An old man squinted through his dusty white window blinds, adjusting his glasses. Another stay at home mom balanced a baby on her hip, staring curiously at her friend across the street through her bedroom window blinds. A teenager gasped excitedly, stopping the engine of her car to investigate, deeply immersed in what was about to take place. A small dog joined the teen at the car window, ears perked up in anticipation.

Taking the wedge, the woman first assaulted the windshield, denting a healthy amount of the glass. That, she thought, was for taking fifteen grand out of their bank account to spend on a 20 year old at the Grand Sierra Resort. When was the last time he took me out to dinner? All those nights he "was at the clinic working late" and I was home, taking care of his own children! That I birthed! And that was not all. There was more concrete evidence besides the receipts.

As she was doing the kids' laundry that morning, and her husband was rushing around trying to find his briefcase for work, she saw a text pop up on her husband's black iphone. A no name number appeared on the screen. 'Can't wait to see you,' it read, finishing off with a winky face emoji. Confused, the woman reluctantly grabbed his phone and tried to unlock his passcode, but failed. Her hands were shaking. Just then her husband barged in the laundry room, snatching his phone out of her hand.

"Bye, honey," he said gruffly, giving her a peck on the cheek and hurrying out the door. "I'll be late for work, gotta go. Let's go to Tony's tonight. Maybe see a movie, your pick."

And with that, he was out the door. Panic started to rise in her chest. She was in disbelief. Who was that? The text had a winky face. For the next few minutes as the children hurried around her, snatching their lunch bags and kissing her goodbye, she stood in a trance, only nodding "Mhmm" and "Okay, hun."

As the last child closed the door behind her, the mother hurried to her husband's computer. Over the next two hours, the woman scoured through her husband's computer -alone- in the silence of their home which was nearly fifteen years in the making. She discovered emails, app messages, and numerous charges on their dual bank account. To her surprise, the charges averaged at least $3,000 a week. A deposit to the hotel on the strip the night after their anniversary. Another the same morning of their daughter's high school graduation. The charges dated back three years ago. Many, many $1500 dollar deposits to local Universities, some out of state. What the hell is going on? She mused. Is my husband a sugar daddy?

She finally discovered several emails under the name Seeking Arrangements. What is this? She clicked on it. "Millions of Women seeking sugar Daddies. Find your arrangement today. Mutually Beneficial Relationships" the titles read. The site used words like "companionship," and "discreet." There were abbreviations, too. "NSA" and "DD/LG" were in descriptions and profiles. Hesitantly, she clicked her husband's profile. It was a blurry picture, and his eyes were blacked out, so it didn't really look like him. She scrolled down the page, horrified.