My husband left on a month-long business trip, and I tried to transfer his favorite potted cactus, but I shattered it while moving it. But what I found in the shattered pot altered everything. How weird that random incidents may affect our life.
Simple, apparently trivial things upend everything and change everything. My turning point was a common cactus. Maybe I should start my narrative there.
Early Saturday morning. Spring sun illuminated our flat in warm gold. My husband, John, spent a month in New York on business.
Long absences were common at his major construction firm. I was used to his absence, yet I missed him. Since I was alone in the flat, I rearranged some furnishings. I wanted to update the décor for a long, but John was conservative and wanted everything in its place.
He was especially reverent about his cactus collection, which he’d been collecting for several years. On the windowsill of our room, there was a row of thorny plants of different shapes and sizes. John cared for them with a special tenderness, which he rarely showed me.
Among all this thorny company, one cactus stood out. Large, with fleshy leaves and long, sharp needles. John called it “General.”
This cactus appeared in our house about three years ago, and my husband always treated it with special affection. Even on business trips, he left me detailed instructions on how to care for it. It was strange, of course, this attachment to a prickly windowsill dweller, but I didn’t think much of it.
People can have all sorts of quirks and passions. That morning, I decided to move the dresser that was against the wall opposite the bed. For several months, I had been obsessed with the idea that it would look much better next to the window.
Perhaps if I move it now, John, upon his return, will appreciate my efforts and won’t object to such changes. I moved the dresser away from the wall and began to slowly move it around the room. It turned out not to be as easy as I thought.
The massive oak furniture yielded with difficulty to my efforts, but I stubbornly pushed it toward my goal. Finally, breathing heavily, I installed the dresser in its new place. Exactly where I wanted it.
Right under the windowsill with the cacti. Taking a few steps back, I critically examined the result of my work. Yes, that’s much better.
The room immediately took on a more harmonious look. But one thing bothered me: the cacti.
Now they were right on top of the dresser, and every time I opened the drawers, I risked touching those thorny plants. I needed to move them. But where? I looked for a suitable place.
I could move them to the living room windowsill, but my violets were already there. There was no room for them in the kitchen either. After some thought, I decided to temporarily place the cacti on a shelf in the hallway.
The light there wasn’t as good as in the bedroom, but it was only temporary. When John returns, we’ll decide together where to put them. Carefully, trying not to prick myself, I began to move the plants, one by one.
The small cacti fit perfectly in the palm of my hand and didn’t give me any trouble. But when it came to the General, I hesitated. This cactus was not only the largest, but also the thorniest.
Also, its clay pot seemed quite heavy. First, I put on gardening gloves to protect my hands from the needles. Then, I carefully grabbed the bottom and lifted it.
It turned out to be much heavier than I expected. As if it weren’t filled with ordinary soil, but with something denser and heavier. Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, I carried the cactus across the room.
Everything was going well until my gaze fell on the photograph on the nightstand. Our wedding photo. John and I, so happy and in love, looking at each other tenderly.
This photo always evokes a warm feeling in me, but lately it was mixed with a slight sadness. Something had changed between us in six years of marriage. The lightness and openness with which we once treated each other were gone.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts, staring at the photograph, that I didn’t notice the corner of the rug I tripped over. The pot slipped from my hands and fell to the floor with a thud. The clay cracked, scattering into several large fragments, the earth spilled out in a shapeless heap, and the poor General fell sideways, losing several of his impressive spires.
Oh, John will be furious. I immediately imagined his disgusted face, his reproaches, perhaps even his icy silence, which was always worse than any words. But there was nothing I could do; I had to fix the situation.
I ran to the kitchen for a dustpan and a brush to collect the scattered soil. When I returned to the bedroom, I knelt in front of the accident site and began carefully raking the dirt over the dustpan. And then my gaze fell on something strange among the clods.
It was a small metallic object that gleamed in the rays of the morning sun. At first, I thought it was just trash that had accidentally gotten into the pot when I repotted the plant. But when I picked it up, I realized it was a key.
A neat little key, similar to the ones you use to open mailboxes or small boxes. Where did I get a key in a cactus pot? I turned it over in my hands, puzzled. Maybe John accidentally dropped it there when he repotted the plant? But if so, why didn’t he take it out? I set the key aside and continued scooping up the soil.
And then my fingers felt something else. This time, it was a small plastic bag, tightly sealed and stained with soil. I carefully cleaned it and held it up to the light.
Inside the bag was a USB flash drive. An ordinary one, black, with no identifying marks. What was it doing in the pot? And why had John hidden it there? Questions plagued me, but there were no answers.
I left the bag with the USB drive next to the key and continued searching the soil, carefully examining each clump. And my efforts weren’t in vain. At the bottom of the pot, almost at the bottom, I found another object.
A small metal box, a little bigger than a matchbox. It was covered in a thin layer of rust, as if it had been lying on the ground for many years. I turned it over in my hands, trying to find the lock.
Sure enough, there was a small hole on one side, perfect for the found key. My heart was pounding. What kind of hiding place had my husband set up in some random cactus pot? What had he been hiding from me all these years? I looked at the little key and then at the box.
Should I open it or not? On the one hand, these were John’s personal belongings, and I had no right to rummage through them without him knowing. On the other hand, why was he keeping something in such a strange place, hiding it from me? There had never been any secrets in our family. At least, that’s what I thought until that moment.
After a moment of hesitation, curiosity won out. I inserted the key into the lock and carefully turned it. The mechanism clicked, and the lid of the box opened slightly.
I held my breath and opened the cover completely. Inside was a thin, tightly rolled piece of paper. I carefully removed it and unfolded it.
It was an old photograph, yellowed with age, its corners curled. It showed a young woman holding a child. The woman smiled at the camera, and the child, still a baby, slept peacefully, pressed against her chest.
I had never seen this woman before. She didn’t look like any of John’s relatives I knew. She had long, dark hair, expressive eyes, and a sad, peculiar smile.
Who was she? And why did John keep her photograph in such a secret place? Turning the photo over, I found an inscription on the back. The faded ink was barely legible, but I was still able to read it. Two lines, written in neat, feminine handwriting.
Sarah and David. Together forever. June 10, 2009.
Sarah? Who’s Sarah? And David? Is that the boy’s name? But what does John have to do with this? Why did he hide this photo? I put the photo back in the box and grabbed the USB drive. Now I wanted to know even more about what was inside. But for that, I needed a computer.
I left the cactus and the soil scattered on the floor and hurried to the living room, where our laptop was. My hands were shaking a little as I turned it on and inserted the USB drive. A window with the USB drive’s contents appeared on the screen.
Several folders with incomprehensible names. Numbers, letters, no clue as to their contents. I opened the first folder.
Inside were PDF documents. I clicked on the first one, and a scanned passport appeared on the screen. Neither mine nor John’s.
The passport was issued in the name of David Miller. Date of birth: June 10, 2009.
The same day as indicated in the photo. The next document was the birth certificate of this same David. Mother.
Sarah Miller. And the father’s name paralyzed me. Father…
John Anderson. My husband. My vision went dark; the room blurred before my eyes.
How is this possible? John has a son. A son he never told me about. And a wife.
This Sarah, who is she to him? I mechanically opened other documents. Marriage certificate between John Anderson and Sarah Miller, dated May 15, 2009.
A contract for the sale of an apartment in both names. Insurance policy for all three of them: John, Sarah, and their son, David.
It was like a punch in the gut. Is John married? Does he have another family? A child? But how is this possible? After all, we’ve been married for six years. I frantically compared the dates.
We married Sarah in May 2009. And John in September 2017. It turns out he was already married when we got married? All these years!
Who? A mistress? A second wife? A person without official status. My head was spinning from the amount of information and emotions overwhelming me. But I forced myself to keep studying the contents of the USB drive.
In the next folder, I found photographs. Dozens, hundreds of photographs. And she was in every one of them.
Sarah. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the child, sometimes. With John.
Here are the three of them on the beach. Here celebrating a birthday. Here on Christmas morning at kindergarten, proud parents filming their son’s performance.
Ordinary family photos. Just like the ones John and I have. Only in these, another woman was in my place.
I didn’t know what to think. How did John manage to live a double life? How did he manage to divide his time between two families? And most importantly, why did he do it? In the third folder, I found videos. I clicked on the first file, and John’s face appeared on the screen.
He was looking directly into the camera, a certain vigilance in his gaze. “If you’re watching this video, Sarah, it means something went wrong,” he began. “I want you to know that.”
I love you and Davey more than anything in the world. Everything I do, I do for you. If anything happens to me, I have all the necessary documents in the box.
Bank accounts, real estate, insurance. Everything is in your name and our son’s name. You’ll be safe.
I promise.” The video ended, and I continued staring at the screen, not believing what I was seeing or hearing. I love more than anything in the world.
And what about me? Where do I fit into this picture of the world? I opened a few more videos. Some showed ordinary family moments. The child’s birthday, some trips, get-togethers at home.
In others, John addressed the camera again, talking about some love affairs, potential danger, and the need to be careful. He spoke incoherently, dropping hints, clearly afraid to call a spade a spade. I scrolled to the end of the folder and found a video from last month.
Just a few weeks ago. In it, John was standing in a room that looked like a hotel room. “Sarah, I’ll be delayed in Miami for a couple more days,” he said.
Things aren’t going as well as I’d like. Give Davey a kiss for me and tell him Dad will be back soon. To Miami.
But John told me he was going to Chicago for a meeting with partners. He lied to me. However, after everything I’d seen, this deception seemed insignificant.
I closed the video and leaned back in my chair. Absolute chaos reigned in my head. I couldn’t accept that the man I had lived with for six years, whom I trusted, whom I loved, had been leading a double life all this time.
He was the husband of two women, the father of a child whose existence I didn’t even suspect. How is this possible? How did he manage to divide his time between us? I tried to remember how often John was away from home. Business trips.
He traveled constantly on business. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a week, and sometimes for a month. I never questioned the necessity of these trips.
His job required frequent travel, and I assumed it was normal. And now it turns out these business trips. Or at least some of them.
Were nothing more than shared time with the other family. This thought was so far-fetched, so unbelievable, that I couldn’t accept it. I opened the folder with the documents again and began to methodically go through them.
Maybe I misunderstood something. Maybe there was another explanation. But the more documents I reviewed, the clearer the picture became.
John had another family I knew nothing about. Among the documents, I found a lease for an apartment in Boston. The apartment was rented to Sarah Miller, even before my wedding to John.
And judging by the renewal dates, she was still living there. In Boston? Just a few hours’ drive from our city. I felt nausea rising in my throat.
I needed fresh air. I shut down my computer, took out the USB drive, and walked over to the window. I opened it wide and took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself.
What should I do now? How should I react to such a discovery? My first impulse was to immediately call John and demand an explanation. But I held back. In that state, it was unlikely I could have a constructive dialogue.
Besides, maybe it would be better to find out for myself first, gather as much information as possible before confronting him. My gaze fell on the clock. Almost noon.
I’d spent several hours in front of the computer, unaware of how time was passing. My stomach growled treacherously, reminding me that I hadn’t had breakfast yet. But the thought of eating disgusted me.
How can I think about food when my life has been shattered, like that unfortunate cactus pot? The pot. I’d completely forgotten about it. The soil was still scattered across the bedroom floor, and the poor cactus was lying on its side.
I needed to clean everything up, but I didn’t have the strength. Instead, I went back to the computer and inserted the USB drive. This time I decided to carefully examine all the files, all the documents, to get a complete picture.
Among other things, I found bank statements. The accounts were opened in Sarah Miller’s name, but the regular deposits came from John’s card. The amounts were quite significant…
About the same as his monthly earnings. It turns out that all these years he split his income between two families. But he always said he didn’t earn as much as he’d liked.
We saved, set aside for the future, and denied each other some things. But in fact, he only gave half of his income to another woman and their son. I tried to remember when I first noticed something odd about John’s behavior.
But nothing specific came to mind. He had always been a loving husband, calling me from business trips, bringing me gifts, and taking an interest in my affairs. Yes, lately he had become more withdrawn, sometimes distracted, but I attributed it to fatigue and work problems. How blind I was!
How I didn’t notice the obvious signs. Now, looking back, I remember a lot of details that should have alerted me. His strange calls, which he preferred not to make from home, but on the street or in the car.
His unexpected changes in his business travel schedule. He would return early and then delay without much explanation. His reluctance to have children, even though we used to talk about it naturally.
A child. Juan already had one child. A son.
He must be about 14 now. A teenager. And all these years I thought we were putting off having children for financial reasons and a desire to get ahead first.
These thoughts brought tears to my eyes. I felt cheated, used, cut off from his real life. Who had I been to him all these years? Entertainment? An alternative? Or just a convenient cover for his shady dealings? I remembered the strange video where John talked about some danger, about the need to be careful.
Perhaps his double life was related to something illegal. Perhaps he was involved in shady dealings. Work.
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, which I had considered quite prosperous, was actually built on lies.
Around three in the morning, I finally fell into a restless sleep, filled with strange and disturbing visions. I dreamed of John, but with a different face. He spoke to me, but his words were incomprehensible, as if in a foreign language.
And nearby, there was always that woman, Sarah, holding a child, looking at me with a sad smile. I woke up with my alarm clock at six in the morning. I felt a heavy weight on my head after a sleepless night, but my determination hadn’t abandoned me.
I quickly got ready, called a taxi, and went to the station. The train to Boston left at 7:30. I sat by the window and prepared for the three-hour journey. Through the window, the outskirts of the city could be seen, replaced by fields and forests, but I paid little attention to them. My thoughts were occupied with the impending meeting with Sarah.
What would I say to her? How would I explain my appearance? And most importantly, how would she react to learning that her husband was married to another woman? I imagined myself in her place. How would I react if a stranger showed up at my door, claiming to be my husband’s wife? She probably wouldn’t believe it.
She would think it was a ridiculous joke or a mistake. I needed proof. Something to convince Sarah of the truth of my words.
I took out my phone and looked at my photos with John. Here’s our wedding photo. We’re under a flower arch, happy and in love.
Here’s a photo from our honeymoon in Italy. And here’s last year’s New Year’s. John, wearing a silly Santa hat, hugging me by the shoulders.
These photos should convince Sarah I’m not a fantasist. But are they enough? Maybe I should take the marriage certificate? It was at home, in the document drawer. No, I decided. Photos are enough.
Also, I had the USB drive with the documents I found in the flowerpot. If necessary, I’ll show them to Sarah. The train arrived in Boston just in time.
10:25 a.m. I stepped out onto the noisy platform of the central station and immersed myself in the bustle of the big city. I’d never been to this city before, and in another situation, I would have been impressed by the magnitude and energy of the metropolis.
But I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing anymore. I was focused on my goal. I called a taxi and gave him the address.
15, Academic Street. The driver nodded and drove me through the city. The trip took about an hour due to traffic, and during that time I tried to gather my thoughts and prepare for the upcoming conversation.
But the closer we got to our destination, the more excited I became. What if he wasn’t home? What if that same guy, David, opened the door for me? What would I say? Or worse, what if I ran into John there? After all, maybe he wasn’t on a business trip, as he’d told me, but here with his other family. Thinking about that warmed me up…
I imagined myself opening the door and seeing John sitting at the table with Sarah and David. A happy family idyll in which there was no place for me. How would I react? What would I say? But it was too late to back out.
The taxi was already approaching the indicated address. A typical Boston skyscraper in a residential area. I paid the driver and got out of the car.
For a moment, I was overcome with the desire to turn around and leave, forget all this, return to my normal life. But I realized that the old life would no longer exist. Too much had changed in the last 24 hours.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and walked in. Apartment 42 was on the seventh floor. I took the elevator up, feeling my heart pounding every second.
Here is the right door. An ordinary door, behind which my husband’s life was hidden. I raised my hand and pressed the doorbell resolutely.
Several long seconds passed. No movement, no sound. I pressed it again, more insistently.
And again, silence. It seemed no one was home. I looked around, not knowing what to do.
Wait? But how long? An hour or two, all day? What if no one shows up? I had no other address to find Sarah. And then the door of the neighboring apartment opened a crack, and an older woman with a curious look appeared through the gap. “Do you live with the Millers?” she asked, looking at me appraisingly.
“Yes, with Sarah,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound confident. “They’re not home,” the neighbor reported. “They’ve been at the cabin all weekend.”
They’ll only be back on Monday. Today was Saturday. So I’d have to wait two days.
“And who are you to them?” the neighbor asked curiously. I was confused for a moment. Who was I to them? No one.
A stranger interfering in someone else’s life. But I couldn’t tell the truth, of course. I’m Sarah’s colleague, so I improvised as I went along.
I need to give her important documents. “Do you know where her house is?” the neighbor asked, narrowing her eyes, obviously doubting the veracity of my words. But then, apparently, she decided there was nothing criminal about my question.
“Somewhere in rural Massachusetts, I think, in the Springfield district,” she replied. “I can’t say for sure.” She wasn’t interested. “But if you want, I can give you her cell phone.”
I have it just in case. “That would be a great help,” I replied gratefully. The neighbor disappeared into the apartment and returned a minute later with a piece of paper with the phone number written on it.
“Here, take it,” she said, handing me the article. “I hope it’s nothing urgent.” “No, nothing that can’t wait until Monday,” I assured her.
“Thank you for your help.” The old woman nodded and closed the door, and I stood on the landing, a piece of paper in my hand. Now I had a way to contact Sarah directly.
But was it worth calling her? What would I say over the phone? Such news doesn’t come from a distance. I went downstairs and left the entrance. The day was warm and sunny, a typical summer day.
People around me were hurrying, cars were making noise, children were playing. Normal, everyday life was a stark contrast to the chaos in my soul. I found the nearest cafe and went in to have a snack and think about what to do.
I ordered a salad and tea, took out my phone, and looked at the number. Should I call or not? I could simply say I’m calling for work, introduce myself as a colleague, like I did to the neighbor. And then, during the conversation, find out exactly where the cabin is and go there.
But wouldn’t that look strange and suspicious? While I was thinking, my order arrived. I chewed the salad mechanically, barely tasting it, and continued to weigh the pros and cons. The decision was unexpected.
I’ll call John right now. I’ll tell him I know about his second family and ask for an explanation.
After all, he was the main culprit in this whole situation, so why not start sorting things out with him? I dialed my husband’s number, preparing for a difficult conversation. But after several beeps, it went to voicemail. John wasn’t available.
Perhaps he was in a meeting, on the subway, or simply didn’t want to answer calls. In any case, this path turned out to be a dead end. I went back to the original plan.
I needed to find a way to see Sarah in person. And if that meant going to the country house in Springfield, then so be it. I opened the map on my phone and looked up where Springfield was.
An hour’s drive from Boston. Not far. But the problem was, I didn’t know the exact address.
Springfield. Not the most accurate location for searches. I looked again at the written phone number.
Maybe I should call after all? What do I have to lose? Determined, I dialed the number. My heart was beating so loudly it seemed every customer in the café could hear it. After several beeps, a female voice came through.
Hello? It was the same voice I’d heard on the video on the flash drive. The voice of my husband’s wife, much longer than mine. “Hello, Sarah,” I said, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.
“Yes, it’s me,” she replied. “And who is this?” I hesitated for a moment. How should I introduce myself? Under what pretext should I make an appointment? “My name is Laura,” I said, without revealing my real name.
I. I need to meet you. It’s about John. There was a pause on the other end of the line.
Then Sarah asked cautiously. “John? You? A colleague?” “Not exactly,” I answered evasively.
It’s a personal matter. Very important. I’d prefer to discuss this in person, not over the phone.
Again a pause. I almost physically felt her distrust and alertness. “I’m not sure I understand what this is about,” she finally said.
And I’m not in Boston right now. I know. You’re at the cabin, I said. Your neighbor said you’re in the Springfield district.
I could come if you give me the exact address. Were you at my house? There was clear anxiety in her voice. “Who are you? What do you need?” I understood I was scaring her, but I saw no other way to arrange a meeting.
Please, don’t be afraid, I tried to calm her down. I won’t hurt you. I just need to talk to you about John.
About your husband. I said the last words with special emphasis, hoping they would make her think. And again, silence.
This time more. Finally, she spoke, and her voice sounded tense. Where do you know John from? I took a deep breath.
The moment of truth. Should I tell her right now or wait until we meet in person? I’m his wife, I answered simply. We’ve been married for six years. On the other end of the line, I heard a strange sound, like muffled crying.
Then the connection was cut off. Sarah hung up. I stared at the phone screen, not knowing what to do.
Call her back? But what should I say? She’s obviously shocked, maybe she doesn’t believe me. And it’s unlikely she wants to continue the conversation. But I needed to see her.
I had to find out the truth. The whole truth about John, about his double life, about his secrets. I dialed the number again, but this time Sarah’s phone was either off or out of range.
Apparently, she decided to avoid further communication. Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad will go to the mountain. I decided to go to the Springfield district to find her cabin.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I had no other choice. I paid for my order, left the cafe, and headed for the subway. I needed to get to the train station where trains departed for Springfield.
On the train, I continued to ponder the situation. What if Sarah really didn’t know I existed? What if the news about her husband’s second wife shocked her as much as it did me? Perhaps that’s why she hung up. Out of shock and disbelief.
But on the other hand, what if she knew? What if she was aware of John’s double life and actively participated in it? Perhaps they had cheated on me together all these years? At these thoughts, a wave of anger washed over me. How could they? How could John do this to me? And to her? Didn’t he enjoy living a lie, cheating on two women, playing two cards? The train pulled into Springfield station, and I stepped off the platform. Now came the hard part.
To find Sarah’s house in the entire district, filled with rural settlements. I approached the station’s information desk, hoping to find a map of the district or a list of rural cooperatives. And, sure enough, such a map existed.
Rural settlements scattered across Springfield like mushrooms after a rain. Dozens, if not hundreds, of plots, divided into cooperatives with romantic names: Birch, Sunny, Forest.
How to find the right person? I had no idea. But I wasn’t going to give up. I took out my phone and dialed Sarah’s number again.
To my surprise, this time she answered. Almost immediately, as if she’d been expecting my call. “I want to meet you,” she said without preamble.
In an hour, at the Forest Glade café on the outskirts of Springfield. “Do you know where it is?” I replied, saying I’d find it with the navigator. Fine, she continued in the same tense voice.
“So… Come alone. No witnesses or police. This is a conversation between us.”
“Sure,” I assured her. “I’ll go alone.” The connection cut out, and I stood on the platform, phone in hand, hardly believing my luck.
Sarah herself suggested the meeting. She herself set the time and place. So she wanted to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to her.
I found the indicated café on my navigation system. It was about two kilometers from the station. I could walk or take a taxi.
I chose the latter to make sure I wasn’t late for the meeting. The taxi arrived at the café exactly 45 minutes after the conversation with Sarah. I had 15 minutes left before the agreed-upon time.
I paid the driver and got out of the car. The Forest Glade Café was a small wooden building on the edge of the forest. Nearby, there was a parking lot for several cars.
The place was quiet and secluded, ideal for the conversation that awaited Sarah and me. I walked in and looked around. There were only a few visitors in the café.
An elderly couple by the window, a group of young people at a large table in the corner, and a solitary woman at a table at the back of the room. I recognized her instantly, even though I’d only seen her in photographs. Sarah.
She saw me too and nodded slightly, inviting me closer. I headed to their table, my heart pounding. Here she is, the woman who was my husband’s wife for much longer than I had. The woman who bore him a son.
The woman whose existence changed my life completely. Up close, she looked older than in the photographs. Dark hair with a hint of gray, tired eyes, and wrinkles at the corners of her lips.
But still beautiful, with a special, understated elegance. “Hello,” I said, stopping at their table. “I’m Laura.”
We spoke on the phone. She looked at me carefully, as if assessing me, and then gestured for me to sit down. “You said you’re John’s wife,” she said after a pause.
“Is that true?” I nodded and took my passport with the marriage seal out of my bag. I gave it to her. “My real name is Emily,” I said. “Emily Anderson.”
To my husband. Look.” Sarah took the passport, carefully studied the page with my details, and then turned to the page with the marriage registration stamp.
Her face remained impassive, but I noticed how the knuckles of her fingers, gripping the document, turned white. “Six years,” she said quietly. “You’ve been married for six years?” “Yes,” I confirmed. “And you and John? How long?” “Sixteen,” she replied, handing me back the passport.
We were married in 2009. Even before David was born. Sixteen years.
That meant that, by the time we got married, John had already been married to Sarah for ten years. Ten years with another home, another family, another life. “So you didn’t know about me?” I asked, though the answer was obvious.
Sarah shook her head. “No, of course not. Do you think I would allow my husband to marry another woman? This is… crazy!” There was bitterness in her voice, but not anger.
At least not with me. “How did you know?” she asked after a pause. I told her about the cactus, the broken pot, the USB drive, and the box I found.
With each word, her face tightened. “This cactus,” she said when I finished the story. “It was always with him.”
For as long as I can remember, John never left her side of the family, even taking her on business trips. I always wondered about this attachment to the plant, but I attributed it to quirks in his character.
“And what was on the USB drive?” she asked. “What did you find there?” I told her about the documents, the photographs, and the videos. About how John spoke to her in those videos, telling
What happened next changed everything…
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