It began like any other Tuesday. I was stirring pasta sauce, the scent of garlic and basil filling our kitchen, when he mentioned her again. His new coworker. He’d talked about her for weeks – how smart she was, how quickly she picked things up, how she’d streamlined a process he’d been struggling with. Positive things, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. But a tiny, unwelcome seed of doubt had planted itself in my gut. He’d never gone on about a colleague quite like this before.
I’d caught myself looking at myself a little longer in the mirror, wondering if I still had “it.” Wondering if the comfortable routine of our ten years together had made me… boring. Ridiculous, I know. He loved me. We had a good life. So, I did what any rational, slightly insecure person does: I decided to confront the unknown head-on.
“Why don’t we have her over for dinner?” I suggested, trying to sound casual, as if the idea had just popped into my head. “You know, make her feel welcome. We haven’t had anyone over in ages.”
Spencer Lofranco is pictured at the Tribeca Film Festival, on April 16, 2016 | Source: Getty Images
He paused, a flicker of something in his eyes I couldn’t quite place – surprise? Relief? – before a warm smile spread across his face. “That’s a great idea, honey. She’d love that.”
And so, the invitation was extended. A simple dinner, just the three of us. I spent the day cooking, cleaning, fussing over details I usually wouldn’t bother with. I wanted to show her we were happy. I wanted to show her what she wasn’t. I wanted to reassure myself.
She arrived precisely on time, a bottle of expensive wine in hand. She was… stunning. Not in an obvious, flashy way, but in a quiet, elegant manner that made every insecurity I’d ever pushed down bubble right back up. Her dark hair was pulled back simply, highlighting sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She had a laugh that tinkled like chimes, and a way of making you feel like the most interesting person in the room.
Spencer Lofranco attends the “Gotti” premiere on June 14, 2018, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
The evening started pleasantly enough. We talked about work, about her move to the city, about current events. My husband was charming, as always, making sure both of us were engaged. See? Nothing to worry about. Just a friendly dinner. I sipped my wine, trying to relax.
But then, things began to shift. Imperceptibly at first. She mentioned a minor office mishap, and my husband finished her sentence with a shared chuckle. They referenced an inside joke I didn’t understand, a knowing glance passing between them that lingered a beat too long. He poured her more wine before she even had to ask, knowing her preference. Small things. So small. But they started to weave a tapestry of discomfort around me.
I tried to interject, to steer the conversation back to neutral ground, to remind myself and them of our shared history, our life together. But it felt like pushing against a current. They had a rhythm, an easy back-and-forth, a way of anticipating each other’s thoughts that felt… practiced. Like a well-choreographed dance I hadn’t been taught the steps to.
Mary-Louise Parker and Spencer Lofranco share a hug at The Jane Hotel on April 19, 2012, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
My stomach twisted. No, no, I’m imagining things. I’m being paranoid. I watched them, truly watched them, from behind my carefully constructed smile. I saw the way his eyes lit up when she spoke, a brightness I hadn’t seen directed at me in months. I saw the way she would subtly lean into his space when making a point, her hand occasionally brushing his arm. It wasn’t overt. It was insidious.
The night wore on. The wine flowed. And then, it happened.
We were talking about summer plans, about a trip we had taken years ago to a remote cabin in the mountains. I started to describe the view from the porch, the incredible quiet.
She smiled, a soft, almost wistful expression on her face. “Oh, that sounds lovely. Reminds me of the cabin we stayed at for our anniversary. The one with the old swing on the oak tree by the lake.”
RJ Mitte and Spencer Lofranco attend the “King Cobra” cast dinner on April 15, 2016, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
My fork clattered against my plate. The noise was deafening in the sudden silence.
My husband’s face went white. He stared at her, a look of pure panic in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. Anniversary? I looked at her, then at him. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum in my chest. “Your… anniversary?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely a whisper. “Who… who’s anniversary?”
She looked at me, her smile faltering, replaced by confusion, then dawning horror as she followed my gaze to my husband. He was shaking his head, a desperate, silent plea. But it was too late.
Spencer Lofranco is seen on April 15, 2016, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
Her eyes met mine, wide and filled with a terror that mirrored my own. She slowly, almost imperceptibly, reached up and touched the delicate silver band on the ring finger of her left hand. It was simple, elegant. Exactly the kind of ring I would choose.
“Our… our wedding anniversary,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes fixed on my husband, who was now staring at the table, shoulders slumped. “We’ve been married for three years.”
The air left my lungs. My entire world tilted. The pasta sauce, the garlic, the basil, the comfortable kitchen, the easy smiles – it all evaporated, replaced by a deafening roar in my ears.
I looked at him, truly looked at him, my husband of ten years, the man I loved, the man I thought I knew. He was a stranger.
HE WAS A STRANGER.
Barry Manilow is seen in Midtown in New York City on May 23, 2017 | Source: Getty Images
HE HAD ANOTHER WIFE.
HE WAS A BIGAMIST.
AND I HAD INVITED HER INTO MY HOME.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to smash everything. But all I could do was stare at the two of them, the woman he had just called his coworker, the woman who was apparently his other wife, and the man who had just shattered every single truth I had ever believed in.
What was this? A cruel joke? A twisted revelation? The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. The entire evening, the weeks leading up to it, clicked into a horrifying, crystal-clear picture.
Barry Manilow in 1990 | Source: Getty Images
He hadn’t been talking about his coworker. He had been talking about his wife. And I, in my naive insecurity, had opened my home, my heart, to the very betrayal that had been lurking in plain sight all along.
The pasta grew cold. The wine soured. And I realized, with a sickening certainty, that I had just hosted the wake of my own life.
