John always said he worked for a construction company, managing the supply of materials and negotiating with partners. But was it true? I’d never been in his office, nor had I met his colleagues. He always separated his work life from his personal life.
I decided to check it out. There should be documents related to his job on the USB drive. And, sure enough, in one of the folders I found contracts, agreements, and business correspondence.
But the company mentioned in these documents had a completely different name than the one John claimed he worked for. And the sector was different. It wasn’t construction, but logistics.
International transport. The more I delved into the documents, the more confused I became. Some contracts were written in foreign languages, with companies from countries I knew next to nothing about.
The amounts mentioned in these documents made me doubt their legality. Where did a modest supply manager get such money? In one of the last folders, I found something that finally made me lose track. They were passport scans.
Not one, but several. And they were all issued in John’s name, but with different surnames: Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson.
Why does a person need multiple passports with different surnames? The answer came naturally, but I was afraid to even mentally formulate it. It was already getting dark when I finally pulled myself away from the computer. My head was buzzing from the amount of information, and my eyes were tired from staring at the screen.
I felt devastated, as if I’d been squeezed a lemon. But at the same time, deep inside me, a determination was born. I had to uncover the whole truth, no matter how bitter it was.
First, I needed to verify whether Sarah and her son David really existed, or if it was some sophisticated fabrication. The photographs and videos could be fake, the documents fabricated.
I needed irrefutable proof. I took out my phone and opened social media. If this woman is real, she should have accounts, photos, and friends.
I typed “Sarah Miller” into the search bar and got many results. Too many to view each profile. I needed to narrow down my search.
I returned to the USB drive and found Sarah’s date of birth on the documents: February 27, 1985. She was three years older than me.
I added this information to the search, and the results narrowed down considerably. Now I needed to compare the photos with the one I found in the box. After a few minutes of searching, I found it.
The profile was private, with minimal personal information, but the main photo left no doubt. It was the same woman. Dark hair, expressive eyes, and a sad smile.
Only now, she looked older than in the photo on the box, which was natural enough. Browsing through her posts, which were available even without adding her as a friend, I saw several photos of a teenage boy. He looked strikingly similar to John.
The same eyes, the same lip shape, even his smile. Dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth, something I loved so much about my husband. There was no doubt about it. Sarah and David existed.
They were real people, not a figment of someone’s sick imagination. And, apparently, they were John’s family. His real family.
I checked Sarah’s feed and found a post from last week. The photo showed a table set with a birthday cake, and the caption read, “Happy birthday, loving husband.”
May all your dreams come true.” John’s birthday was last week. He celebrated it on a business trip.
Or rather, as I now understood, with his other family. Bitterness and resentment flooded me with renewed force. I threw the phone onto the couch and burst into tears.
I was sobbing my head off, like I hadn’t cried in years. All the pent-up tension, the shock of discovery, the pain of betrayal. All of this spilled out in a torrent of tears. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, giving free rein to my emotions.
Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. When I finally calmed down, it was already dark outside. I felt empty, but at the same time strangely liberated.
As if I had cried not only the pain, but also part of my old personality. That naive, trusting woman who blindly believed in her husband. Wiping away my tears, I answered again.
Now I needed to find out everything I could about Sarah. Who is she? What does she do? How long has she known John? Even though the profile was confidential, I managed to find out something from public information. Her place of work.
A company, East Trans. Judging by the name, related to transportation or logistics. The same sector in which, I learned from the documents, John worked.
A few friends, common interests. Nothing special, nothing to explain why John was leading a double life, I thought.
If Sarah really considers herself John’s legal wife, she probably doesn’t know I exist. Or does she? Maybe she’s the same victim of deception as I am. I needed to talk to her. Directly, face to face.
But how to arrange it? I couldn’t just send her a message. “Good morning, I’m your husband’s wife.” Let’s get together and talk about the situation.”
It seemed like the beginning of a cheap melodrama. But I needed answers. And it seemed Sarah was the only person, besides John, who could give them to me.
I went back to the documents on the flash drive and found the address of the apartment Sarah was renting. Boston, Academic Street, House 15, Apartment 42. I wrote down the address, trying to decide what to do.
Go to Boston? Right now? It seemed crazy. But sitting around waiting for John’s return, pretending nothing was wrong, was even crazier. Besides, I didn’t know when he’d be back.
He said the business trip would last a month, but now I realized I couldn’t believe a word of it. The decision came naturally. I’ll go to Boston.
Tomorrow. I’ll find Sarah and talk to her. Maybe she knows more than I do. Maybe she herself is a victim of John’s deception.
Or maybe she’s his accomplice in some dark business. In any case, I had to Discovering the truth. After making the decision, I felt a strange relief.
At least now I had a plan of action, something concrete to hold on to in the midst of this chaos. I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. Despite my lack of appetite, I needed to eat something.
The day had been tough, and the next day promised to be even tougher. I would need strength. I opened the refrigerator, mechanically took out groceries, and began preparing a simple dinner.
My hands moved on autopilot, making familiar movements, while my thoughts continued to revolve around the discovered secret. How could John lead a double life? How did he manage to lie to both of us without arousing suspicion? And most importantly: Why? Why did he need two families, two homes, two lives? The financial aspect also tormented me.
Supporting two families required a considerable amount of money. Where had John gotten so much money? A normal job at a logistics company would hardly provide such an income. Perhaps he was involved in something illegal.
I remembered his strange video message to Sarah, where he spoke of some danger, of the need to be careful. Perhaps he was connected to the criminal world? Perhaps this whole double life was part of some complex plan? But what? The questions multiplied, and there were no answers. I realized that without a conversation with John or Sarah, I would remain in the dark.
But I couldn’t wait for my husband to return. Too many lies, too many secrets. I had to act now.
After dinner, I started packing for the trip. The train to Boston left early in the morning; I could buy the ticket online. I packed a small suitcase with the essentials, not knowing how long I’d be in the city.
Then I checked my bank account. I had enough money for the trip and to stay in a hotel for a few days. The last thing I did was clean up the mess in the bedroom.
I picked up the shards of the pot, swept up the scattered soil, and placed the cactus in a new pot. The damaged plant looked a little shriveled, but seemed quite viable. It’s funny how a small thing like a broken pot could bring about such significant changes in my life.
After finishing cleaning, I took a shower and went to bed. Despite my tiredness, I couldn’t get to sleep. I tossed and turned, mentally replaying the day’s events, trying to grasp that my life,
