He always hated them. Family gatherings, I mean. Birthday dinners, Thanksgiving, even Christmas was a struggle. He’d tolerate it, yes, but you could see it in his eyes – a dull flicker of annoyance, a constant checking of his watch. Just get through it, his whole demeanor screamed. So, when he brought up the 4th of July, I almost choked on my coffee.
“Honey, what do you think about doing something… big this year?” he’d said, casual as anything, while I was scrolling through recipes for a quiet dinner.
My spoon clattered into the mug. “Big? What, like inviting my sister’s kids?” That was big for us. Usually, it was just the two of us, maybe my parents if they weren’t traveling.
Dwayne Johnson pictured on September 1, 2025, in Venice, Italy. | Source: Getty Images
He chuckled. “Bigger. Like, everyone. Your parents, your sister and her whole brood, my brother and his wife. The works. Barbecue, fireworks… the whole nine yards.” He even winked.
I stared at him. This was not the man I married. This was not the man who, last year, had feigned a sudden stomach flu to avoid my aunt Mildred’s annual potluck. Was he feeling okay? I touched his forehead. He batted my hand away, smiling. A genuine smile. It sent a shiver down my spine. A good shiver, at first. Maybe he was finally coming around. Maybe he was actually excited to spend time with my family. The thought warmed me. I had always yearned for a house full of laughter, a bustling, chaotic family holiday.
“Really?” I asked, my voice a little breathless with hope.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Let’s make it the best 4th of July ever.”
And so, the planning began. He was… different. Enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic, almost. He actually helped me draft the guest list, calling my brother himself to confirm. He even picked out a specific brand of artisanal sausages he insisted we had to have, something about them being “perfect for the occasion.” He scrolled through Pinterest boards with me, suggesting decorations, even looking at backyard games. I almost cried happy tears. This is what I always wanted, I thought. He’s finally seeing the joy in it.
But a tiny, insistent voice in the back of my head wouldn’t shut up. Why now? Why so suddenly? It was out of character. Alarm bells weren’t ringing yet, more like a gentle tap on a crystal glass. He was always on his phone, more than usual. Texting, mostly. Whenever I’d glance over, he’d quickly turn the screen away. “Just work stuff,” he’d say, a little too quickly. Or, “My brother, asking about the party details.”
Abby Champion and Patrick Schwarzenegger, from a post dated September 19, 2024 | Source: Instagram/abbychampion/
I tried to dismiss it. He was probably just excited. But then there were the errands. He’d be gone for hours, sometimes returning with nothing but a flimsy excuse about traffic or how busy the stores were. He bought a new set of garden lights that seemed excessive for our backyard, and a cooler that was far too large for our usual needs. “For the big party!” he’d declared, beaming. But it felt… off. Like he was preparing for something even bigger.
One afternoon, I found a receipt tucked into his jeans pocket, shoved deep down. It was from a party supply store across town, one I’d never heard of. The date was recent. It listed a large quantity of balloons – specific colors, red, white, and blue, but also yellow and green. And a custom banner. The items weren’t expensive, but the sheer volume, and the custom banner… I gently pulled it out. My heart gave a little lurch. The banner read: “Happy 5th Birthday!”
My breath hitched. Five. None of my nieces or nephews were turning five. Not now. Not anywhere near July 4th.
My hands trembled. This was more than just suspicion now. This was a physical ache, a cold dread pooling in my stomach. I confronted him later that evening, trying to keep my voice calm, but the paper crumpled in my grasp.
“What’s this?” I asked, holding up the receipt.
He looked at it, his face paling. “Oh, that? It’s… it’s for a colleague. His kid’s birthday. He asked me to pick some stuff up.” He forced a laugh. It sounded hollow. “You know, because I’m so good at party planning now.”
I looked at him, searching his eyes for any flicker of truth. There was none. Only evasion. “A custom banner, for a colleague’s kid?” I pressed. “And yellow and green balloons? For a 4th of July party?”
He stammered, his eyes darting around the room. “He… he just likes those colors. It was a favor, honey. Don’t make a big deal out of nothing.”
Arnold Schwarzenegger with Maria Shriver at the Palais des Festivals during the 56th International Cannes Film Festival on May 16, 2003, in Cannes, France | Source: Getty Images
But it was a big deal. The tap on the crystal glass had turned into a frantic, insistent ringing. I couldn’t sleep that night. I checked his phone while he was in the shower. I felt like a terrible person, but I had to know. It was locked. Of course.
The 4th of July arrived, bright and sunny, mocking my inner turmoil. Our house filled with family, just as he’d wanted. The smell of barbecue filled the air. Laughter, fireworks already popping in the distance. My parents hugged me, telling me how wonderful it was that he was finally embracing family time. Each compliment felt like a fresh stab.
He was beaming, working the grill, shaking hands, playing with my nieces. He looked… happy. Genuinely happy. It made me sick. He kept checking his watch, though, and stepping away from the crowd to take quick calls, his voice low.
My sister, noticing my quietness, put an arm around me. “You okay? You look a million miles away.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing a smile. I’m falling apart.
That’s when I saw it. He’d set his phone down on the patio table, rushing to get more ice. The screen lit up with a new text message notification. Just the top banner, not the full message. But it was enough.
A contact name I didn’t recognize. And then the words, clear as day: “They’re here! He’s so excited for his surprise party! Thank you for everything, my love. Our little boy is finally 5.”
The world tilted. The laughter faded. The fireworks popping in the distance sounded like bombs exploding in my chest. SURPRISE PARTY. OUR LITTLE BOY. FINALLY 5.
My hands flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp. It hit me like a physical blow. The specific colors of balloons. The oversized cooler. The new garden lights that weren’t in our garden. The inexplicable enthusiasm. The fake errands. The constant checking of his phone.
Christopher, Christina, Arnold, Patrick, Katherine Schwarzenegger, and Chris Pratt attend “FUBAR” Season 2 premiere at Netflix Tudum Theater on June 11, 2025, in Los Angeles, California | Source: Getty Images
It wasn’t a family party for us. It was a cover. A distraction. He’d orchestrated this entire gathering for my family, knowing it would keep me busy, keep me happy and unsuspecting, while he was… he was planning another 4th of July party for his other family. His secret son.
I felt a scream building in my throat, but no sound came out. The bright red and white bunting around our patio seemed to twist into a grotesque mockery. My husband, who hated family gatherings, hadn’t suddenly changed his mind. He just found a way to use mine as an alibi. He had planned a big 4th of July celebration alright, but it wasn’t for us. It was for his other life, for the child I never knew he had, for the woman who just called him “my love.”
I watched him across the yard, laughing, flipping burgers, looking like the perfect host. He caught my eye and smiled, a blinding, innocent smile. I almost passed out from the pain.
MY GOD. HE HAS ANOTHER FAMILY.
The fireworks started in earnest then, painting the night sky with brilliant, exploding colors. But all I could see was the darkness, the gaping chasm that had just opened up beneath my feet. The biggest, most heartbreaking twist was that his desire for a “big 4th of July party” had been fulfilled. Just not with me.
