Bryan and I have been married for fifteen years, we were high school sweethearts, and ever since then, it has been nothing short of a wonderful life together. We share everything with each other and I have never been so comfortable around a person. My infertility has meant that we could never have kids, at least not biologically, and we were told a few years ago that IVF isn’t a plausible option either. Regardless of this, we lead a very happy life together and between personal interests and friendships we are okay with never building a typical family. Or at least I thought we were.
Around 2 months ago, I noticed small changes in Bryan’s behavior that created a small but nagging sensation of suspicion in my mind. He began meeting his friends at odd hours compared to normal, he began to come to bed with me but leave a few minutes later as soon as he thought I was asleep, and he began to take “work calls” throughout the day when we would normally spend that time together. He explained this away by saying he’s nearing the completion of a big project and he needs to be available more often than usual. I would, in normal circumstances, have trusted him completely with this explanation and the doubt in my mind would have dissipated. But the things mentioned above when combined meant that his explanation didn’t quite scratch my itch of suspicion.
Over the next few weeks, I took notice of things I would have otherwise mindlessly ignored. Like listening to his supposed work calls. I snuck away from the couch a few seconds after he had left to take one of these calls and followed him to the bedroom door he had closed to maintain his privacy. I heard him arguing with someone, claiming he hadn’t lied to them about an unknown topic and that he cared for them. I heard enough to know that this was no work conversation. He had to be cheating on me. I waited until he was taking one of his weekly hour-long baths under candlelight and reading a book to finally unearth whoever this person was. We knew each other’s phone passcodes and so getting access was more a matter of time than effort. Ten minutes after I heard the bathroom door close and lock, I slipped into our room and saw his phone face down on the bedside dresser. I unlocked it and navigated to the iMessage app. What I saw horrified me.
The top contact was me, complete with my animated profile picture showcasing my flowing blonde hair, my bright green eyes, and the red heart emoji next to my name. Except after pressing onto the conversation it became evident that we did not have these conversations. I don’t remember having these conversations. I exited the app with trembling fingers to see who he had called just a few hours prior; hopelessly wishing that it would not show me what I expected it to. The call was to my contact, and I knew I had never received a call from him today. I checked my own phone just to make sure, and it didn’t show up there either. My husband was by all means talking to me, only it wasn’t me.
A few weeks passed during which I kept this to myself both out of fear and depression, my husband noticed the change in my emotional state which I blamed on issues at work. One Friday night after he told me was going into town to hang out with his friends I decided I would track him with an AirTag already connected to his iPhone. I researched and found out that Apple notifies somebody who is being tracked with an AirTag connected to somebody else’s phone and so I knew I could only use the one connected to his phone that he usually places in his luggage for weekends away. After 30 minutes of driving, he stopped at what seemed to be a house on the edge of town and I waited for a few minutes more to confirm to myself that he really did stop and leave the car. I grabbed my phone, changed into a hoodie and some sweatpants, and started my car.
I arrived at a somewhat dilapidated red brick house surrounded by thick bushes and an overgrown lawn. Slowly, my heart rate rose as I exited my car and approached the building. There was a paved path with a color pattern past its best leading to the front door, but I saw figures moving behind the thin curtain covering the main living room window. I walked towards the figures with trepidation after noticing that light from inside was escaping through a minuscule crack in the curtain. When I arrived at the window I pressed my face against it in an attempt to see through the crack and into the living room.
My husband was dancing with someone. She had long blonde hair, and a pregnant stomach and they were dancing to our wedding song. A dance routine only the two of us knew. My heart sank deep into my stomach. In an instant, she craned her neck up and looked at me. But she didn’t. She didn’t have any discernible reaction to seeing herself, it was as if she had looked through me.
As if I didn’t exist to her.