Family?
I didn’t know you had a family. You told me your mom and dad had passed away and that you had no brothers or sisters, but there are names here. Quite a few names. I opened the folder that said Mom and Dad, and there are emails for you, from your mom. The last one was yesterday. I sit there, my heart fluttering, breaking out into a pale sweat, and my hands are shaking as I open another and another. They go back and back and back.
I work my way through those folders, one by one, and there’s a whole other life here. Two brothers. A sister. Cousins, Uncles. Aunts. Friends I’ve never heard of, and I’ve never actually met any of your friends, have I? I’ve never thought about that. I’ve been so happy spending that time with you, just you and me, and it’s not like I have many friends here. Not close friends, anyhow.
What’s going on? I don’t know, except I’m starting to think I do, and I’m feeling sick.
I click on your Google Drive, and there are folders there, too. Utilities. I look, and there are bills. Gas. Hydro. Water. I opened one, and the account is in two names. Yours, and a woman’s name. There’s an address. It’s local, five years, there are five years’ worth of statements, and there must be a mistake. There must be. I look, and I look, and I look, folder after folder, and there’s so much. I want to tell myself its lies. It’s all lies. It can’t be true. It isn’t true.
But I know it is. There are images, too. Photos. Lots of them. This is all real, and what am I? What are you and I?
That woman, I read through your emails to her and hers to you. You email her the way you email me; you tell her you love her, and I look at the most recent email. From last night. You tell her you’ll be back for the weekend, that work went well, that you love her, and you feel sick. What is this? What have you been doing? I read, and I read, my classes forgotten. I look at my calendar, and when you’re telling her you’re away for work, you’re with me.
When you tell me you’re away for conferences and work trips, you’re with her. It all matches, and I go back and back and back. She’s your wife. You’re married, and what does that make me? You’ve been living with me. At least, I thought you were living with me. But now I think I understand why you’re away most weekends. Why you’re here, with me, Monday night to Friday morning? You’ve been lying to me, and you must be lying to her, too, and I look at those wedding photos.
I know you don’t have a Facebook page, and now I think I know why. It’s not because you don’t like social media, is it? I search for her, your wife, and it’s easy. I find her right away, and there you are, with her. She’s not very security conscious, all her friends are visible. Her posts are all public; the photo album of your wedding is there for anyone to look at, and I do look. The last posts are from the weekend. You and her, with friends, out for dinner, and she’s announcing that she’s pregnant.
There are even photos of a baby shower she just had a few weeks ago. Those dreams of you and me? Of marriage? Of babies? Shattered into splintered glass, and she’s beautiful. Older than I am. She’s attractive, like you. She’s tall, not short, and she’s not slender like me, but she’s beautiful, and you two look so happy. She’s smiling at you, and her wedding dress is gorgeous, the sort of wedding dress I imagined for me to wear for our wedding, and the way she’s looking at you, I can see she loves you.
You’re looking at her, and I know that look. It’s the way you look at me, and my heart breaks. Does that look like a lie? Do you still look at her like that? Like you look at me? I searched for my name, and I found one doc. It’s a letter. It was to me, and I read it. I read it again and again, and I can’t believe what it says. I don’t want to believe what it says. It’s a goodbye letter, and you’re telling me you’ve gone. You’ve left me. It’s not working for you, and it’s a draft.
I can’t see anymore, I can barely read for the tears, and I know everything here is true.
I’m not sure what to do, but I can’t stay logged in to your account all day. I copy everything. All the contents of your Google Drive. All your emails. Everything. It doesn’t take long, and then I log off, and I have no idea what to do.
None.
My phone rings, and I know it’s you. I look, my heart pounding, tears in my eyes, because I know, and I’m sure that whatever you say, you’ll be lying to me. I answer anyhow.
“Hi,” I say, and you know something’s wrong.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“I’m not feeling well,” I say, my voice catching, and there are so many questions. So many things to ask you. But I’m scared you might answer, and I don’t want to know. Not now. I need time to think, although I’m not sure what to think about. “I took the day off.”
“Stay warm,” you say. “And drink some honey. Take some extra Vitamin C.”
“Okay,” I say,
“I love you,” you say. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Love you,” I say, and I do, but inside, I’m cold. I’m shivering. I’m terrified because you’re saying one thing, and I’m terrified that the reality is different. I don’t want it to be different. I don’t want to know the truth, but I can’t lie to myself. I know.
But I can lie to you. Now. “I’ll see you when you get back. Call me tonight?”
“I will,” you say, and I wonder what reason you’re going to give for not being here next weekend. It’ll be something else. Something I can believe; I know that because up until I saw those emails, I believed you. Conferences. Sales trips. Contracts you told me your company had overseas contracts, and you spent a lot of time travelling, working on client sites, and attending conferences. Public speaking.
I have friends in companies that do that kind of work. I believed you. Until I read those emails.
Late afternoon, I take a taxi and drive to the address on those utility bills. It’s an estate, one of the older ones with those huge mansions, and the address is one of those. It doesn’t take me long to get there. Two storeys, there’s a new garage; the house looks like it’s been restored. New roof, new windows, the garden is landscaped.
Expensive.
We have shared the rent for our apartment since you moved in with me. I look at your house, and half the rent for my apartment must be spending money for you. For me, it’s a struggle every month, and I was so grateful that you paid half. I told the driver to park across the road and wait.
Six. Six thirty. My mobile rings, and it’s you.
“I’m at the airport, Temi,” you say. “My flight just got in. I’m catching the shuttle to the hotel, I called to tell you I love you.”
“I love you,” I say. “Call me when you’re at the hotel. I want to know you’re safe.”
“I’ll try,” he says. “But if it’s too late, I’ll text you, okay… hey, here’s my ride. I love you. Bye now…”
“I love you,” I say, watching the garage door open, and a car slows, and turns. I see you, driving, checking the traffic, and you’re not checking who’s sitting in a parked car across the road. It’s you, I know it is, you’re only feet away as you wait for a car coming the other way, and then you drive into the garage, the door closing behind you.
I sit there, shaking. Shivering. I want to throw up. I open my laptop, and I read through again everything I’ve copied. I need to see them again. I need to make sure it wasn’t a nightmare. It is, but it’s a nightmare that’s real. It’s true, I know everything in those emails is true. This is where you live. Where you really live. You’ve lived with her for five years since you were married. You’ve lied to me. You’ve lied to me from the very first, and I look at the letter you’ve written to me.
The letter that tells me you’re leaving. Leaving your job. Leaving the country. Leaving me. In two weeks, because I’ve seen the air tickets, in your emails. Tickets for you and her. You’re so organized. Everything’s there, on your Google Drive, in folders. Utilities. House Sale. Travel. The moving company. Your taxes. Bank statements. Emails to and from her. Every day. Her parents. Everything about your life with her.
Email folders. I go through them all again. Your friends. Friends I’ve never met. Never heard of it. Family. Two brothers. A sister. You told me you were an only child, that your parents were dead. Lies, they were all lies, because I can see the photos. Your wedding. Your parents. Her parents. So many people I’ve never heard of from you.
There’s that other email address. That other Google Drive is linked to that other email address. The one that’s for you and me, and there’s not much in that one at all. It’s a façade for emailing with me. Chatting with me. Photos of you that you shared with me, and it’s all so fake. It’s all an act, and I can’t read that letter again. The one you’ve written, and you weren’t even going to tell me you were sorry.
Just that you were leaving, that we weren’t right. That it was over between us.
When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to leave, take your clothes and those few things of yours from our… no, my… apartment, and vanish from my life, leaving that letter for me? What did you think I would think? Did you even think about how much that would hurt me? How much pain would I feel? How much I loved you? How betrayed would I feel? It’s agonizing; that pain and all I want to do is curl up on my bed and cry.
Except it’s not even my bed. Not anymore.
Tears trickling down my face, I told the driver to start the car, and drive, except I don’t know where I was going next, and he drove around and around and around, aimlessly, until at last I directed him to our apartment, except it’s not, and I can’t bear to sleep in that bed. It’s your bed, you bought it for us. We spent a whole Saturday together, choosing that bed. For you and me, but it was all a lie.
I sleep on the couch, and I only sleep because I’m exhausted.
On Monday, after you go to work, I’m going to come to your house. I’m going to ask that woman who lives there. Is she really your wife? Are you married? I’m going to take everything with me, and I’m going to find out if it’s really true. I don’t know how I’m going to say it to her. How I’m going to ask.
But I will. I have to know. I have to.
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