The company gala was everything I usually dreaded. Too much small talk, too many polite smiles plastered on faces that clearly wanted to be anywhere else. But I went for him. My husband. He always said these events were important, a chance to network, to show we were a united front. And I loved him enough to put on a sequined dress and pretend I enjoyed discussing quarterly projections with strangers.
The night was droning on, a predictable hum of clinking glasses and forced laughter, when she approached. She was striking, with intelligent eyes and a calm, almost serene smile. I’d never seen her before. My husband was across the room, deep in conversation, oblivious.
“You must be her,” she said, extending a hand. Her grip was firm, her touch surprisingly warm. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you. He talks about you… constantly.”A pleasant enough introduction, right? But the way she said it. The pause before “constantly.” The slight tilt of her head, as if weighing something. And her eyes – there was a depth to them, a sadness mixed with something else I couldn’t quite place. Not malice, not rivalry, but… knowledge. An unnerving familiarity.
A serious man in a suit | Source: Pexels
Was she an ex? I wondered, a prickle of unease starting in my gut. Did they have a history? Is that why she’s looking at me like that? I smiled back, tighter than I intended. “And you are…?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she laughed softly, a sound that held a surprising hint of melancholy. “My manners. I’m just… glad you’re here tonight. It means a lot to him. To have you both.”
The word “both” hung in the air, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor. It felt… off. I glanced instinctively at my husband, who was still chatting away, his back to us. My heart did a strange little flutter. Both? What did she mean? Was she referring to us as a couple? Or was there another “both”?
I tried to shake it off. Just an awkward social interaction, I told myself. She probably meant ‘you both as a couple make him happy.’ But the unease persisted, a dull ache behind my ribs. I made polite conversation for a few more minutes, her replies perfectly charming, yet still carrying that subtle undertone of something unsaid. Something known.
The rest of the night, I watched my husband. Did he look at her? Did their paths cross? They didn’t. Not overtly. He was the picture of a devoted partner, introducing me to his colleagues, making sure my glass was full. Yet, every time he smiled at me, a tiny voice whispered, Does he know what she knows?
The drive home was quiet. He talked about a new client, a potential promotion. I feigned interest, my mind replaying the encounter. “Who was that woman?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “The one with the long dark hair, who spoke to me earlier? Said she was glad I was there.”
A serious man standing with his arms folded | Source: Pexels
He frowned, concentration etched on his face from the winding road. “Which one? Oh, you mean… probably just someone from accounting. Or maybe HR. I don’t keep track of everyone, love. You meet hundreds of people at these things.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand, and the subject was closed.
But it wasn’t closed for me. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay next to him, listening to his steady breathing, the images of her serene smile and knowing eyes swirling in my head. The word “both.” It burrowed under my skin.
The next few weeks were a blur of growing paranoia. I found myself scrutinizing his phone, though I never dared to open it. I checked his emails, his browser history – anything for a clue. I was being ridiculous, I chided myself. He loves you. This is just your insecurity talking. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. It escalated, an insidious poison spreading through my mind.
One evening, he left his laptop open on the kitchen counter, logged into his personal email. My heart hammered. Just a quick peek. I told myself I was looking for a grocery list he might have sent, a bill we needed to pay. But my fingers hovered, then moved to the search bar. I typed in her first name.
Nothing. Not in his emails. Not in his contacts. See? I thought, a wave of relief washing over me. You’re crazy.
But then, my gaze fell on the desktop. A folder. Labeled innocuously: “Project X.” My gut twisted. He never used code names for work. He was meticulously organized.
A sad woman | Source: Pexels
With trembling fingers, I clicked. Inside, wasn’t documents or spreadsheets. It was photos.
Dozens of them.
Photos of him. Smiling, laughing. And next to him, a different woman. Not the one from the gala. This woman was younger, with bright, sparkling eyes and a cascade of fiery red hair. They were everywhere: at the beach, in a cozy cafe, standing in front of a quaint little house I didn’t recognize.
My breath hitched. My hands started to shake uncontrollably. This was it. The mistress. The confirmation of my worst fears. He was cheating. My vision blurred, tears stinging my eyes. The photos continued, a horrifying testament to a secret life I hadn’t known existed. Each click was a fresh stab.
Then I saw it. In the background of one of the photos, taken in front of that same quaint house, was a tiny, striped baby carrier. My stomach lurched. My mind refused to process it. I clicked to the next picture. And the next.
There she was, the redhead, holding a baby. A beautiful, tiny baby, no older than a few months. My husband was beside her, his arm wrapped around her waist, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on his face as he gazed down at the infant.
A serious man looking straight ahead | Source: Pexels
HE HAD A CHILD.
My world shattered. Not just an affair. A family. He had a whole other family. The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I felt like I was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to move.
My eyes scrolled back to the image of the baby, the red-haired woman, and him. My husband. My brain was a whirlwind of images, trying to make sense of this devastating betrayal. Who was this woman? This baby?
Then, like a bolt of lightning, the truth struck me. A cold, hard, sickening realization that made me want to scream.
The baby. The photos of the baby. Its eyes. Its little nose. They were unmistakably familiar.
My blood ran cold. My hands flew to my mouth, stifling a choked sob. I clicked back to the first photo of the red-haired woman holding the baby. And then, I looked closer at the baby’s face.
I knew that face. I had seen it before.
An upset man | Source: Pexels
My mind raced back to the company gala. To the woman with the intelligent eyes and the serene smile. The one who had approached me, said she was “glad I was there,” and used the word “both.” The one who had looked at me with that strange, knowing depth.
And now, looking at this baby’s face, a face I somehow already knew…
OH MY GOD.
The baby wasn’t the red-haired woman’s. The baby wasn’t a product of an affair.
THE BABY IN THE PHOTO… WAS THE WOMAN FROM THE GALA’S BABY.
She wasn’t his mistress. She wasn’t his ex. SHE WAS HIS FIRST WIFE. AND THE BABY… IS THEIRS.
The “awkward moment” at his work event. Her knowing smile. Her saying, “It means a lot to him. To have you both.”
She wasn’t referring to me and him as a couple. She was referring to me and her baby.
HE NEVER DIVORCED HER. HE HAD ANOTHER FAMILY. AND HE MARRIED ME WHILE HE WAS STILL MARRIED TO HER.
An upset woman | Source: Freepik
I wasn’t his wife.
I was the other woman.
