Before my husband, Joe, left for a business trip, he bought me a parrot. It was an early anniversary gift, he said, to make up for not being with me. The first day I had it, the parrot learned to say, "I love you." The second day, it learned to say, "I love you, Joe." By the end of the week, it could say the name of every single person in our lives. Except for mine. Then, late one night, the parrot started squawking frantically, over and over again. "Joe loves Clara." I immediately dialed my husband's number. "Who is Clara?" There was a pause on the other end of the line, then a manufactured yawn. "Probably the name of its old owner. Why? What's wrong?" "Nothing," I said, smiling into the phone before hanging up. Then I called the owner of the bird shop and placed an order for one hundred African Grey parrots, all trained to talk. The delivery address was Joe’s office. … The parrots arrived before I did. By the time I got there, the lobby of Hawthorne Industries was already swarming with employees. A slow, meaningful smile spread across my face. I clapped my hands lightly. At the sound, the crowd turned in unison. "This year's anniversary gift is a parrot," I announced, my voice carrying across the lobby. "The Executive Assistants can get theirs first. Don't worry if you don't get one now, another shipment is on its way." Compared to the usual boring gift baskets, who wouldn't want a talking African Grey parrot that cost thousands of dollars? A cheer went up, and a line quickly formed at the reception desk. The young woman at the front desk spotted the parrot perched on my shoulder, her eyes lighting up. "Mrs. Hawthorne, is that your parrot? He's beautiful!" I smiled and nodded. "He is. Joe gave him to me. He even talks. Want to hear?" The receptionist nodded eagerly, her face alight with anticipation. I snapped my fingers near the parrot's head. "Joe loves Clara," it squawked. "Clara loves Joe." Instantly, the hundred other parrots in the lobby erupted in a cacophony of mimicked chatter. It took a full ten minutes for the noise to die down. I feigned annoyance and flicked the parrot's head with my finger. The receptionist had been here for years; she was an expert at reading people and understanding office politics. It only took her a second to catch my meaning. She played her part perfectly. "What a coincidence," she said, her voice loud enough to carry. "The new assistant in the EA pool is named Clara, too." At her words, the group of assistants instinctively parted, revealing a pale-faced young woman standing in their midst. The moment Clara appeared, the parrot on my shoulder took flight, landing on hers and nuzzling affectionately against her cheek, chirping, "Miss Clara, miss Clara." I didn't need to ask any more questions. This was her. The sharp click-clack of my heels on the marble floor seemed to echo the pounding in Clara's chest. I stopped in front of her. "My husband gave me this bird. Since it seems to like you so much, you can have it." Before the woman could refuse, Joe's voice cut through the tension. He had just arrived. "That was a gift for you, Nina. Why would a temp assistant who hasn't even passed her probation be worthy of it?" Joe wrapped his arm around my waist, and I leaned into his embrace. To any outsider, we were the picture of a loving, powerful couple. But we both knew the truth. We both knew the affection was a lie. I shot a contemptuous glance at Clara, who looked like she was about to burst into tears, her lips white and trembling. I tapped Joe's chest playfully, my voice a soft reprimand. "Darling, don't be so harsh. You're scaring the poor girl." I turned back to Clara. "The parrot is mine to give. I say it's yours, so it's yours." Joe sighed, as if exasperated by my willfulness, but then he leaned in and placed a tender, proprietary kiss on the corner of my mouth. When he looked up at Clara, however, his eyes were chips of ice. "Since my wife insists, you will accept it. But remember, this is a one-time thing." Clara looked utterly bewildered. Last night, this man had held her in his arms, whispering sweet nothings. Now, he was a cold stranger. A flash of pure hatred crossed her face as she looked at me. She snatched the parrot from her shoulder and, with a choked sob, slammed it onto the marble floor before turning and running away. The color drained from Joe’s face. He took an instinctive step to follow her, but I grabbed his arm, my grip like steel. "Honey," I said, my voice sweet, "the parrot is dead." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, forcing his tone to remain calm. "Sweetheart, I have a video conference I'm late for. After my meeting, I'll take you out myself and we can pick out any gift you want." But he could see Clara’s retreating figure about to disappear. He dropped the act, yanked his arm from my grasp, and chased after her. I watched them go, my expression unreadable. Then I turned to the receptionist, who was looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and awe. "How would you like a raise?" "So, you're telling me Clara is a single mother with a five-year-old son?" The young receptionist, Maya, gulped down her bubble tea. "Yes! My best friend is in HR. She told me Clara has a son, but she's never been married. One time, Clara let it slip that the boy's father is the CEO of a publicly traded company." I stirred my coffee, lost in thought. A few weeks ago, I would have never connected this to Joe. We had been through so much together. We started our company right out of college. It sounds simple, but with no family support and no experience, we were drowning. We were constantly exhausted, perpetually broke. We’d shared a single packet of instant noodles for dinner, huddled for warmth under a bridge. Finding vegetables that vendors had thrown out at the market felt like winning the lottery. "Mrs. Hawthorne?" Maya waved a hand in front of my face. I took a sip of my coffee. "Do you know where Clara lives?" The address was familiar. The neighborhood was familiar. Of course it was. It was the modern glass villa I had bought five years ago. At the time, Joe had complained it was too big, too sterile, that it didn't feel like a home. So, despite how much I loved it, I had given it up, and we had moved into the cozy three-story townhouse he preferred. Now I knew why. He didn't dislike the villa. He just wanted it for Clara. A bitter laugh escaped me. Joe Hawthorne, what a brilliant schemer. Using my money to house his mistress and his bastard child. A small soccer ball rolled to a stop at my feet. "Ma'am, can you get my ball for me?" I looked up and saw a small boy with a face that was a miniature version of Joe's. I had prepared myself for this, but seeing him, a wave of raw anger and a sharp, unexpected pang of heartbreak washed over me. The sting of my own nails digging into my palm brought me back to my senses. I forced a gentle smile. "Here you go." For the next few weeks, I became a ghost. Even Joe started to complain. He wrapped his arms around me from behind one evening, his chin resting on my shoulder. His warm breath on my neck made my skin crawl. "Mr. Hawthorne, about the dinner tonight—" Clara's voice trailed off as she entered the office and saw me. Her eyes widened in panic, and she instinctively tried to hide her hands behind her back. "That's a lovely bracelet, Clara," I said conversationally. "You have excellent taste. Is that a piece from 'Solitaire'?" "Their jewelry is known for being one-of-a-kind." I paused, letting my words hang in the air. "It's funny, it looks quite similar to a custom piece I ordered from them recently." The double meaning was not lost on anyone in the room. I saw the same flicker of panic on both of their faces and smiled with satisfaction. "Of course," I added lightly, "my eyes could be deceiving me." Joe visibly relaxed. I sidestepped his attempt to take my hand. It was time for my performance. A single, perfect tear rolled down my cheek. "Joe, she killed my parrot," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Why is she still here? Why haven't you fired her?" Clara looked horrified, her eyes welling up as she clutched at Joe's sleeve. He patted her hand reassuringly. "Honey, Clara told me what happened. It wasn't intentional. She's allergic to feathers, and she just had a bad reaction." "Besides," he continued, "she's a great employee, and she's a single mother. You're such a kind person, Nina. I know you wouldn't have the heart to fire her, would you?" I looked at him, my face a mask of grievance and injustice. "But I'm not the one who made her a single mother." I let out a shaky laugh. "You're so protective of her. What are you, the baby's daddy?" "Nina, what the hell are you talking about?!" he exploded. I flinched as if struck, my eyes wide with shock. After a long moment, I choked out, "It was just a joke! Why are you so angry?" His darkest secret had been touched, and he lashed out. "You're being completely irrational!" he snapped. "I'm not coming home for a while. You can stay here and think about what you've done." With that, he walked around me, grabbed his coat, and led Clara out of the office. As they left, Clara shot me a triumphant smirk over her shoulder. The door slammed shut. The mask of the wronged wife fell away, replaced by the cold, imperious glare of a queen.
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