I picked up the vegetables and looked up, just in time to see my reflection in that tiny mirror.

How long had it been since I properly used a mirror to touch up my makeup?

I used to be such a proud white-collar worker.

The reflection in the mirror showed me with a sallow complexion, sagging skin, and my once bright eyes now lacking their original sparkle due to years of hard work.

After having two sons, I rarely exercised, and my middle-aged figure had lost its appeal to the opposite sex.

What should I do if Olly remarries?

The children must be supported; they are still young.

I stood there, aimlessly, with the water in the kitchen flowing away.

"Hey, do you need help?"

It was Olly's voice. I snapped out of my daze and saw him looking radiant and energetic, like a man in his early thirties.

It's true that women age easily. I've lost my shine after staying home all these years.

"Has she left?"

I asked carefully. Olly didn't answer directly.

"Just a friend."

He washed a tomato for himself.

"What kind of friend?"

I pressed on, as I don't like guessing. Imagining things makes me fall apart.

Olly was in a great mood and answered vaguely, saying that tonight we could add a chicken leg.

Because he had been promoted again, we could celebrate with the kids.

I didn't know where the chicken legs came from. Olly transferred money and asked me to go buy them.

Fine, I'll go buy them. He's really gotten used to ordering me around.

I glared at him, and he grinned and pushed me. I put on a mask, grabbed my phone, and went out.

Olly is still generous to the three of us, never cutting back on the money for groceries and living expenses.

I walked quickly to the nearest market and ran into the girl who had come to the house earlier. She was holding a takeout box of lobsters and happened to bump into me.

"Senior, are you buying vegetables? I'm Zoe Ball. Tonight, Olly is having lobster at my place. You might want to buy less."

What does she call me?

I stood at the market, feeling dizzy and disoriented, with tears unexpectedly welling up in my eyes.

I'm only thirty-five, yet I'm called a "Senior" by twenty-something girls?

I felt a surge of anger and a metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

For the sake of my children, I've lost my job and my life, and ended up as just another "Senior" or nanny in others' eyes.

I can't continue like this.