My Husband's Female Friend

On the day I was six months pregnant, Mike said he wanted to take me to get an annual pregnancy yoga membership. I sat in the front passenger seat, gently rubbing my belly and whispered to the baby, "Daddy is going to make us healthier." When we registered at the yoga club, Yolanda suddenly appeared. She's the "female friend" Mike always talks about, with silvery-gray short hair, dressed even sharper than the guys. "Mike, have you told the front desk that because you and your wife aren't getting along in bed, you still need me to comfort you?" The moment she said that, all the staff nearby stopped what they were doing and their eyes quickly darted to me. The pen in my hand froze as I looked up at Mike, waiting for him to respond. But he just chuckled softly and reached out to stroke Yolanda Scott's hair: "Do you want to comfort me today?" The two of them spoke as if no one else was there. Meanwhile, I, a heavily pregnant woman, felt more like an irrelevant background prop. The shop assistant behind me stifled a laugh and leaned closer: "Ma'am, would you like to add some private part tightening sessions? Many pregnant women choose these." I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, but forced a smile: "Yes, definitely add them. Give me ten extra sessions." Yolanda Scott picked up on the anger in my voice, grabbed the yoga ball, and threw it at Mike Carter: "Mike, stop laughing! Don't you see your wife's mad? Go cheer her up!" Mike caught the ball, squeezed it casually, and replied nonchalantly, "She's not that easy to upset; she's very generous." Then, staring at Yolanda's chest, he teased, "This ball's for training your melons, huh? Feels pretty good." Yolanda reached out and pinched Mike's waist, her tone teasing: "No matter how good it feels, it's nothing compared to your waist." When she turned around, she gave me an innocent smile and said, "Viola, we're just joking. Don't get the wrong idea." I caught the challenge in her eyes and sneered, "Wrong idea? I don't have time for that." Yolanda's smile froze momentarily, then she quickly suppressed her anger. "Ah, I forgot—you're still sensitive like a young girl. I guess I crossed the line." Mike saw Yolanda Scott "back down" and immediately frowned, accusing me, "Honey, is this really necessary? For such a small thing, why are you picking a fight with Yolanda?" That sentence was like a matchstick, instantly igniting the frustration I'd been holding back for so long: "A small thing? My husband chatting flirtatiously with another woman—is that a small thing to you?" Mike's face darkened, and his tone hardened: "Yolanda Scott is a shareholder in this club. She specifically got you a discount. Do you really have to embarrass her here?" I looked down at the price list; a regular annual pass was 3999, discounted to 2999—that's just a thousand less. I pulled my black card out of my bag and slapped it down on the front desk with a "pop": "There's enough money on my card to pay for ten private trainers; I don't need her 'discount.'" The card reader beeped sharply. As I turned to leave, Mike suddenly grabbed my wrist so hard that my forearm turned red: "Viola, stop it! I owe Yolanda a favor, and you have to apologize to her right now!" Yolanda Scott pretended to be concerned as she pulled Mike away, reaching out to touch my wrist: "Mike, take it easy. The last time you squeezed my wrist on the boat, it bruised and took days to heal." Then she said to me again, "Viola, don't be upset. Mike's just protecting me. We've been close since we were kids, like real siblings." Watching her act that way, I felt nothing but disgust—after all, I'm Mike Carter's wife, yet I felt like an outsider watching their 'deep sibling bond.' I tore my hand away from Mike and rushed into the elevator. The moment the doors closed, tears finally fell. I touched my belly, my heart aching with pain and sorrow: "Baby, I'm sorry for making you go through this with me." I waited for over half an hour on the mall's first floor. Mike Carter didn't come after me, but I noticed an ad poster for the yoga club on the wall. On the poster, Mike Carter and Yolanda Scott wore tight sportswear, their bodies pressed close as they did partner yoga, with Yolanda's hand resting on Mike's waist. I suddenly recalled last week's prenatal checkup when Mike said he couldn't come because of work and told me to go to the hospital alone—it turns out he wasn't busy; he had time to shoot an ad with Yolanda. My heart felt like it was being twisted, the pain so sharp I could barely breathe. Mike and Yolanda met last year on a deep-sea fishing trip. That day when he came back, his eyes were shining: "Viola, I know this incredibly cool girl named Yolanda Scott. She's even better at fishing than I am, and we became friends on the spot!" At the time, I even laughed and said they could hang out together in the future. Looking back now, I was just painfully naive. The scene from the proposal day suddenly popped into my mind again. Mike Carter had planned to propose on one knee at the beach, but Yolanda Scott suddenly "thudded" and fainted, saying she got dizzy from blowing up balloons too hard. I stood alone inside the heart made of flower petals, watching Mike Carter carry Yolanda Scott to the hospital, leaving me behind. At that time, his friends surrounded me, saying, "Viola, this is a matter of life and death, don't be petty." "If it were Yolanda Scott, she definitely wouldn't mind." I said nothing, yet I was branded as 'petty.' Since then, Yolanda Scott has been like a thorn stuck between Mike Carter and me.