THE ANNIVERSARY GIFT

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It started with a wave. I was up with the baby at midnight, I looked out the wrong window, and the nineteen-year-old nanny next door put on a show she definitely knew I was watching. Then she waved at me. From that night on, my life became a series of traps I walked into with my eyes open: the braai, the upstairs bathroom, the night I drove to Northcliff Hill to spy on her date like a maniac. When the neighbours transferred to Cape Town, I thought I was free. Then my wife invited her to move in. Reader, I fought. I said all the right words. And when she finally got me on the sofa, I learned two things: that she wasn't on the pill, and that my wife's sudden good mood had a reason. They call it an anniversary gift. I call it the night I found out who runs my house.