By Mel Ciavucco
Dearest Trevor,
The trifle in the fridge was never intended for you. I’m so sorry.
I know you couldn’t tell me the truth about your affair. I know who she is, but I forgive you. My lie would have been much worse, I’m actually thankful now I don’t have to conjure it. I found myself daydreaming at work about her, strangling her until she takes that last wretched breath. Poison, I thought. Nobody will know.
I made the trifle and added the devilish ingredient. It was never meant for you, only for her.
And now me.
Forever sorry,
Your devoted wife
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