Eric here. A few weeks ago, I would have claimed I had the life most people dream of. I’ve been married to Rachel for six years and have a lively five-year-old called Lila. Our existence was basic. Steady. At least, I thought so.
A youngster like Lila brightens up every day. Like music, her laughter fills the home, and she turns even boring tasks like grocery shopping and gloomy afternoons into little excursions. Rachel’s eyes and my inflexibility are in her. Really, she’s my universe.
I always relied on Rachel. Steady. Reasonable. My favorite thing about her was her groundedness. She possessed just one pair of high heels, called lipstick “sticky nonsense,” and had little time for fancy clothing or rituals. She preferred natural, which I loved.
This is why the early indicators were just charming quirks. Lila pranced about in her heels like a stilt-walking giraffe. “I’m just like Mommy,” she said, lipstick on her lips and hair leaping as she twirled Rachel’s old dress shirts like gowns.
My immediate reaction was laughter. “You’re the most beautiful princess in the kingdom,” I’d say, grabbing her and kissing her cheek. She squealed and hugged my neck like that was the greatest praise.
Later, I discovered it was occurring more. Lipstick. Dresses. High heels. Small mentions of “Mommy’s red shoes” and “Mommy’s pretty makeup.” I felt something gnawing. My intuition told me something was wrong.
One night after supper, Lila gave her dolls a “makeover,” including crayon-drawn crimson lips she said was lipstick. Rachel, barefaced and barefoot, was humming in the kitchen cleaning the dishes.
I summoned Lila over, rubbing my lap. “Hi, sweet pea. You always claim you dress like Mommy… Mommy doesn’t wear this, right?
She frowned, perplexed. Yes, she does. Everyday. While working.”
My heart jumped. “You mean what?”
She shrugged like it was clear. In the vehicle, she wears red shoes and lipstick. She puts me off to Aunt Carrie’s and leaves.”
Aunt Carrie, Rachel’s elder sister, watched Lila sometimes. Definitely not daily.
I attempted to speak calmly. “Where does Mommy go?”
Lila puffy cheeks. I dunno. She calls it a hidden adult spot.”
Was quiet. My thoughts raced. I nodded, kissed her forehead, and smiled. “Thanks, princess.”
Rachel entered a minute later, pretending like nothing was wrong. “What are you two whispering?”
I forced a grin and replied, “Princess stuff,” but it tasted terrible. The weight in my chest was too much to ignore.
I skipped work the following morning for “an early meeting”. Parking around the corner, I waited. I had no idea what to anticipate. Part of me hoped Lila was simply bewildered and misunderstood.
Rachel left the house at 8:30 a.m. in her jeans and cardigan, her hair in a ponytail. Nothing fancy, just… Rachel. She drove away after waving at Lila through the window.
I followed.
Driven throughout town. I followed her to a seldom frequented corner of the city, my heart racing. She drove into a sophisticated business plaza with prominent silver Nova Image Studio & Talent Agency signage.
My stomach twisted.
I stopped a few spots away and saw Rachel get out of the vehicle and get a big clothing bag from her trunk. She carried it and went inside.
I froze. After exiting, I headed to the building and hid behind a group entering. Lobby was lively. Bright lighting, slick counters, fast-moving photographers and portfolio makers. It felt like entering another world.
I saw her then.
A tall lady in a tailored blazer brought Rachel another clothing bag with the studio’s emblem as they were conversing. Rachel vanished by a side door after they smiled and spoke.
I hesitated. I followed cautiously and quietly. Looked in from outside the door.
Studios included mirrored walls, ring lights, and luxury apparel racks. A makeup chair and a table with palettes, lipsticks, and hair tools were in the corner.
I saw her again—coming out of a curtain.
I scarcely recognized her.
Her beautiful emerald green dress shimmered beneath the lights. Hair in gentle waves framed her face, and makeup was faultless. She looked different from the lady I had breakfast with every day. She was model-like. No, she was a model. She comfortably posed on a little platform beneath a camera seconds later.
I watched in quiet as the camera clicked and flashed as she changed stances, her looks from seductive to lovely, playful to composed. The floor underneath me seemed unreal.
After about twenty minutes, Rachel returned to the changing room and emerged in her basic pants and shirt, still looking like “Mom”. She looked like the lady I kissed goodbye that morning.
But everything changed.
I walked quickly to her vehicle when she left the building. So I stepped up.
“Rachel.”
She turned. She was shocked to see me. “Eric? You—what are?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I whispered. “Nova Image Studio? Modeling? What’s up?”
She glanced around uneasily, suspecting someone was listening. Her voice fell. “Can we talk in the car?”
Our stillness lasted a beat in her automobile. Her shoulders slumped as she breathed.
“I was going to tell you,” she said. “Eventually.”
“When?” I requested. After 10 more shoots? A mag cover?
Nervousness made her giggle softly. I never thought it would go this far. It began once. I met someone at a party via Carrie’s acquaintance. She inquired whether I modeled after seeing. I laughed. I supplied some images, however. Just for fun. No reply was expected. I was then given a position. And I liked it. I forgot how gorgeous I felt. Powerful.”
I remained silent, glancing forward.
Rachel said tremblingly. I hid it from you because I feared it would make you believe I was lying. My ‘low-maintenance’ nature was always your favorite. I didn’t want you to think I was concealing anything. But it became significant.”
I looked at her, finally meeting her eyes. “Why didn’t you trust me to tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure if I trusted myself,” she muttered. “I didn’t want to admit I missed being more than a wife and mom. I buried this part of me long ago. When I began again, it was like returning to a self I didn’t realize I missed.”
Resting in my seat, I tried to take it all in. Pain and understanding fought within me.
I said, “I wish you’d let me in. I may have shocked you.”
She grabbed my hand. Eric, I’m sorry. Truly. No more secrets.”
I gazed down at our joined fingers, then up at her. Lila revealed everything. She practices walking in your heels.”
Rachel laughed through her tears. She’s got a fantastic strut, right?
“She does.”
Hand in hand, we sat there for a time. Our unvarnished, flawed honesty is now genuine.
Lila entered the living area later that night wearing heels and painting her lips red with crayon “lipstick.”
“I’m you, Mommy!” she said.
Rachel grinned, grabbed her, and said, “Yes, baby. You are.”
