Every month, like clockwork, I leave the house for my $300 manicure.It sounds insane, right? Three hundred dollars for polished nails. My partner shakes their head, a fond, exasperated smile on their face. They call it my “indulgence,” my “one vice.” If only they knew. If only they knew how much I loathed those monthly trips, how every single dollar felt like a lead weight in my stomach. But it’s the only way. It has to be.
The lie started small, a casual comment about a new high-end salon opening downtown. “They do these incredible gel extensions, lasts for weeks, total pampering experience,” I’d gushed, making sure to exaggerate the details. The truth is, I’ve never even stepped foot inside that place. The lie grew roots, intertwining with our lives, becoming an unshakeable fixture. “My manicure day,” I’d call it, a sacred ritual where I’d spend three hours away, completely unreachable. A little me-time, a little luxury.
The cost was the hardest part to swallow. We’re comfortable, don’t get me wrong. But three hundred dollars isn’t pocket change. Every time I had to justify it, I felt a tremor of panic. “It’s an investment,” I’d say, laughing a little too loudly. “Think of it as self-care, darling. Happy wife, happy life.” My partner would just roll their eyes good-naturedly, kiss my forehead, and tell me to enjoy myself. Their trust, their innocent belief in my frivolous indulgence, was a dagger to my heart.
Una mujer abraza a su hija llorando | Fuente: Pexels
The night before “manicure day” is always the worst. I barely sleep. My stomach churns, a knot of dread tightening with every passing hour. I think about the money, the precise stack of bills I’ll withdraw from the ATM across town, the one I know my partner never uses. I think about the drive, the route I’ve memorized, every turn and traffic light ingrained in my mind. I think about the face I have to put on – serene, relaxed, like I’m genuinely looking forward to a day of pampering.
The morning itself is a blur of forced cheerfulness. I’ll make coffee, maybe even breakfast, trying to act normal. “Have a good day at work,” I’ll say, my voice tight with an emotion I can’t quite name. Then I’m out the door, the carefully rehearsed lie heavy on my tongue, like a bitter taste I can’t rinse away.
I don’t drive to the salon. Of course not. I drive, instead, to a nondescript part of town, to an old, weathered café tucked away behind a row of pawn shops. It’s always empty, always quiet. The air inside smells of stale coffee and unspoken sadness. I order a plain black coffee, just to look like a customer. I sit by the window, my hands clasped tightly around the warm mug, my eyes scanning the street. My heart pounds against my ribs. Any minute now.
Una mujer enfadada | Fuente: Pexels
Then, I see them.
A woman, slight and tired, pushing a stroller. She never looks directly at me. Her gaze is always fixed somewhere in the middle distance, as if she’s memorized the cracks in the sidewalk. She walks past the café entrance, slowly, deliberately. I stand up, leaving my untouched coffee on the table. My legs feel like jelly.
I follow her out, maintaining a careful distance. We walk for two blocks, in complete silence. The only sounds are the squeak of the stroller wheels and the frantic thumping of my own heart. We stop at a small, unassuming park. There’s a single bench beneath a drooping willow tree. She sits, pulling a small blanket over the stroller’s opening. I sit beside her, careful not to touch.
Neither of us speaks. We never do. Words are unnecessary, dangerous. I reach into my bag, pulling out the envelope, thick with crisp hundred-dollar bills. Three hundred dollars. I place it gently on the bench between us. Her hand, thin and calloused, reaches out. She doesn’t even glance at the money. She just takes it, her fingers brushing mine for a fleeting second. Her touch is cold.
Barbra conmocionada en su jardín | Fuente: Midjourney
Then, she leans forward, just slightly, and pulls back the blanket covering the stroller.
My breath catches in my throat. Every single time. It’s a gut punch, a wave of profound, agonizing love and despair that washes over me, leaving me gasping for air.
Nestled inside, swaddled in a soft blue blanket, is a baby. A perfect, tiny, sleeping baby. Their face is a miniature miracle, rosebud lips, long dark lashes, a faint scattering of freckles already dusting their nose. My baby. My own child.
I reach out a trembling finger, gently tracing the outline of their cheek. Their skin is impossibly soft, warm. I can smell the faint, sweet scent of baby shampoo and formula. This is my manicure. This is why I come. This is why I lie.
The woman beside me clears her throat, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. My time is up. I know it. I pull my hand back, my fingers aching to stay, to scoop them up, to hold them close and never let go. But I can’t. I just… can’t.
Mujer sonriente | Fuente: Pexels
I look at the woman, my eyes pleading. She meets my gaze for a moment, her own eyes devoid of judgment, simply weary. She nods almost imperceptibly. A silent agreement. The unspoken contract between us.
I stand up, my entire body screaming in protest. I take one last, desperate look at that tiny, perfect face, trying to commit every detail to memory, knowing it has to last me another month. A sob threatens to break free, but I swallow it down, forcing it deep inside where it will join all the other untold griefs.
I walk away, my back rigid, tears blurring my vision. I don’t look back. I can’t. The lie of the $300 manicure isn’t just about the money, or the deception. It’s about the truth I carry, a truth so raw and painful, it could shatter our lives if it ever came to light.
I drive home, the weight of the secret pressing down on me. I imagine my partner, asking me about my lovely, relaxing day. “Feel refreshed?” they’ll ask, smiling. And I’ll have to smile back, a hollow, empty smile.
Because the truth is, five years ago, before I met my partner, before I started my new life, I was young, scared, and desperate. I made a mistake, a terrible, heartbreaking mistake. I made a promise to the woman I left my newborn baby with – a promise that I would never abandon them. That I would always be there, in some small way. And for the past two years, since finding out my partner can’t have children, and hearing them talk about how they’ve accepted that fact, how they don’t want to adopt, the pressure has been unbearable.
Barbra planea su cena | Fuente: Midjourney
My partner thinks I’m infertile too. I let them believe it. It’s easier. It’s safer. To protect them, to protect us, to protect the fragile peace we’ve built.
Every month, the $300 isn’t for a manicure. It’s not a luxury. It’s for a private adoption arrangement I made when I was too broken to care for my own child. It’s the payment, the only way I’m allowed to see them, just for a few precious, agonizing minutes. It’s the cost of my secret, the price of my quiet, endless grief.
And every single time I walk back through that front door, my partner wraps their arms around me, pulls me close, and says, “Welcome home, darling. Your hands look beautiful.”
And I just nod, letting them believe it. Because how do you tell the person you love that the reason your hands are empty is because your heart is holding a child they don’t even know exists? HOW DO YOU TELL THEM YOUR $300 MANICURE IS REALLY A $300 TICKET TO SEE THE CHILD YOU GAVE UP, THE CHILD YOU DESPERATELY LOVE, THE CHILD WHO IS THE BIGGEST LIE OF YOUR LIFE?
