Chapter 1 · His Other Family

His phone never left his side.

It had been ten years.

He brought it to the dinner table, slept with it tucked under his pillow, and even took it into the bathroom when he showered.

I'd asked him once, "Is that really necessary?"

He laughed. "I'm used to it."

And I believed him.

Then he got into a car accident and was rushed into the ICU.

The nurse handed me his personal belongings: his phone, wallet, and keys.

I looked down.

The phone wasn't his.

No. More accurately, I'd never seen that phone before.

*****

James Carter's phone was silver. It was a Samsung phone. There was a scratch on the back.

It happened when he dropped it out of the car three years ago. I saw it myself.

But the phone the nurse handed me was black, a spotless iPhone. Not a mark on it.

"This isn't his phone," I said.

The nurse paused, a bit confused. "Ma'am, this was taken from his shirt pocket. It's definitely his."

I kept quiet.

I stared at the phone, my palms starting to sweat.

Maybe it was his work phone?

But he was in sales, and I'd seen the phone his company gave him before. It was a different brand, not this one.

Maybe he bought a new one?

But last week, he'd shown me his phone, a silver Samsung with a scratch on the back.

I stood at the ICU entrance, the hallway reeking of disinfectant.

The phone was locked, requiring a password.

I tried his birthday. No luck.

Then mine. Still nothing.

Our wedding anniversary. Nope.

His mom's birthday. Still nothing.

It was a six-digit password. I tried every date I could think of, but none worked.

My heart started pounding.

This was his phone, the one they took from his pocket. But I didn't even know the password to it.

I took a deep breath and gave it another shot.

I keyed in 091212.

The screen unlocked.

I froze.

091212.

December 12, 2009.

What was so special about that day?

We weren't married yet. We didn't get our marriage certificate until 2014.

What was I doing on December 12, 2009?

I couldn't remember.

But that was the date he used for his phone password.

The screen lit up, and the wallpaper was a little boy.

He looked about five or six, round-faced and full of energy, flashing a huge, sunny grin.

I didn't know this kid.

My fingers were trembling.

I opened WhatsApp.

The first pinned chat was saved with a heart emoji.

The last message was sent at 9:17 this morning.

It read: [Honey, our son says he misses you. Will you be home for dinner tonight?]

I stared at that line, my blood rushing to my head.

Honey.

Our son.

Will you be home for dinner tonight?

I glanced back at the little boy on the wallpaper.

He looked so chubby and full of life, grinning from ear to ear.

The smell of disinfectant in the hallway suddenly felt sharp and suffocating. I leaned against the wall, my legs feeling weak.

I kept scrolling down.

At 9:15, James replied, [I might not make it home tonight. Something came up at work.]

At 9:17, she replied, [Alright, I'll have dinner with our son. Goodnight, love you.]

Goodnight.

Love you.

She said goodnight at 9 a.m.

Because she knew he was going back to his other family.

I couldn't help but laugh.

So James really had two families.

One family was me, his wife. We'd been married ten years, and had no kids.

The other family was her, and a little boy who called him "Daddy."

I stood at the ICU entrance, clutching the phone, and burst out laughing.

People in the hallway stared at me, probably thinking I'd lost my mind.

Maybe I had.

Right now, my husband was still fighting for his life in the ICU.

But all I could think about was how old that boy was.

*****

I didn't go inside the ICU.

I found a quiet corner, sat down, and kept going through his phone.

The WhatsApp chat history stretched back a long way.

I started with the most recent messages and worked my way back, reading each one.

At 11 p.m. last night, James sent a photo.

It was a picture of him and the little boy at an amusement park, with the rides in the background. The boy was perched on his shoulders, and both of them were grinning from ear to ear.

He captioned it: [My son says he wants to be Ultraman when he grows up. I told him I'd buy him a costume.]

She sent a bunch of laughing emojis and said, [You spoil him.]

He replied, [He's my son. If I don't spoil him, who will?]

I stared at that photo.

James's smile was so real, so genuine.

I racked my brain, trying to remember the last time he smiled at me like that.

But I couldn't recall.

I kept scrolling back.

The night before last, she sent a voice message. I couldn't bring myself to play it, just stared at the audio bar.

James replied with a text: [Sweetheart, get some rest. I'll come over tomorrow afternoon.]

Sweetheart.

In ten years of marriage, he'd never called me "sweetheart."

He called me "honey," sometimes "Emily," but most often, he just called me "you."

I kept scrolling.

A week ago, she sent a screenshot of a bill. [Honey, our son's piano lessons need to be renewed. It's 2500 dollars.]

James replied, [Got it, I'll transfer it to you.]

Then there was a transfer for 2500 dollars, marked "Son's piano lessons."

I took a deep breath, exited the chat, and tapped into the transaction history of his bank account.

I started with the latest and scrolled through each entry.

2500 dollars, piano lessons.

1500 dollars, living expenses.

1000 dollars, son's sneakers.

2500 dollars, tutoring fees.

4000 dollars, overseas trip.

15 thousand dollars, car loan.

I stared at the "car loan" transaction.

Car loan?

James and I paid for our car in full three years ago. So where did the car loan come from?

I kept scrolling.

There was a 15,000 payment labeled "car loan."

Every single month, for three whole years.

$15,000 times 12, times 3.

540 thousand dollars in total.

I closed my eyes.

I kept scrolling.

The payment history started in 2017.

2017 marked our third year together.

That was the year I found out I was pregnant.

I remember it all too well. I had miscarried at three months.

That day, James said he was on a business trip and couldn't get away. I took a cab to the hospital by myself, went through the procedure alone, and lay in that hospital bed, crying all night.

I called him, and he told me, "This project is too important. I can't leave."

I believed him.

I always thought he was busting his ass for us.

Now, as I scrolled through his phone, the year 2017 suddenly hit me.

The little boy on his wallpaper looked about five or six years old.

It was 2024 now.

Which meant that kid must've been born in 2017 or 2018.

The year I lost my baby, she was giving birth to hers.

While I was lying alone in a hospital bed, he was by her side, helping her recover after the birth.

When I called him, he told me he was on a business trip and couldn't get away.

Turned out, he really was on a "business trip" after all.

Just not the kind I ever imagined.

He was on a "business trip" to be a dad.

A hollow laugh slipped out of me.

"Family of bed 3?" a nurse called out from the station.

James was in bed 3.

I stood up, my legs still shaky, and made my way over, steadying myself against the wall.

"What did the doctor say?" I asked.

"The surgery was a success. He's out of danger now. He's still in a coma, but the doctor says he should wake up tomorrow," the nurse replied.

"Okay."

The nurse glanced at me. "You don't look so good. Do you want to sit down for a bit?"

"No, I'm fine."

I gripped the phone tightly and walked toward the room.

The hallway stretched on, and I walked slowly.

Those numbers kept running through my mind.

2500 dollars for piano lessons.

15 thousand dollars for a car loan.

4000 dollars for a trip.

James and I had been married for ten years, and every month, I gave him all my salary. He said it was for the mortgage, and I believed him. He said the finances were tight, so we shouldn't have kids yet. I believed that too.

I hadn't bought anything over 60 bucks in ten years.

I hadn't taken a single trip in ten years.

I hadn't even touched my own bank card in ten years.

I thought he was working himself to the bone for our family.

Turned out, he was footing the bill for another one.

At the end of the hallway, the door to the room was open. Inside, the man lying there was my husband of ten years, 3,652 days.

It was the first time I'd ever seen his real phone.

And it was the first time I truly saw who he really was.

Chapter 1

His phone never left his side.

It had been ten years.

He brought it to the dinner table, slept with it tucked under his pillow, and even took it into the bathroom when he showered.

I'd asked him once, "Is that really necessary?"

He laughed. "I'm used to it."

And I believed him.

Then he got into a car accident and was rushed into the ICU.

The nurse handed me his personal belongings: his phone, wallet, and keys.

I looked down.

The phone wasn't his.

No. More accurately, I'd never seen that phone before.

*****

James Carter's phone was silver. It was a Samsung phone. There was a scratch on the back.

It happened when he dropped it out of the car three years ago. I saw it myself.

But the phone the nurse handed me was black, a spotless iPhone. Not a mark on it.

"This isn't his phone," I said.

The nurse paused, a bit confused. "Ma'am, this was taken from his shirt pocket. It's definitely his."

I kept quiet.

I stared at the phone, my palms starting to sweat.

Maybe it was his work phone?

But he was in sales, and I'd seen the phone his company gave him before. It was a different brand, not this one.

Maybe he bought a new one?

But last week, he'd shown me his phone, a silver Samsung with a scratch on the back.

I stood at the ICU entrance, the hallway reeking of disinfectant.

The phone was locked, requiring a password.

I tried his birthday. No luck.

Then mine. Still nothing.

Our wedding anniversary. Nope.

His mom's birthday. Still nothing.

It was a six-digit password. I tried every date I could think of, but none worked.

My heart started pounding.

This was his phone, the one they took from his pocket. But I didn't even know the password to it.

I took a deep breath and gave it another shot.

I keyed in 091212.

The screen unlocked.

I froze.

091212.

December 12, 2009.

What was so special about that day?

We weren't married yet. We didn't get our marriage certificate until 2014.

What was I doing on December 12, 2009?

I couldn't remember.

But that was the date he used for his phone password.

The screen lit up, and the wallpaper was a little boy.

He looked about five or six, round-faced and full of energy, flashing a huge, sunny grin.

I didn't know this kid.

My fingers were trembling.

I opened WhatsApp.

The first pinned chat was saved with a heart emoji.

The last message was sent at 9:17 this morning.

It read: [Honey, our son says he misses you. Will you be home for dinner tonight?]

I stared at that line, my blood rushing to my head.

Honey.

Our son.

Will you be home for dinner tonight?

I glanced back at the little boy on the wallpaper.

He looked so chubby and full of life, grinning from ear to ear.

The smell of disinfectant in the hallway suddenly felt sharp and suffocating. I leaned against the wall, my legs feeling weak.

I kept scrolling down.

At 9:15, James replied, [I might not make it home tonight. Something came up at work.]

At 9:17, she replied, [Alright, I'll have dinner with our son. Goodnight, love you.]

Goodnight.

Love you.

She said goodnight at 9 a.m.

Because she knew he was going back to his other family.

I couldn't help but laugh.

So James really had two families.

One family was me, his wife. We'd been married ten years, and had no kids.

The other family was her, and a little boy who called him "Daddy."

I stood at the ICU entrance, clutching the phone, and burst out laughing.

People in the hallway stared at me, probably thinking I'd lost my mind.

Maybe I had.

Right now, my husband was still fighting for his life in the ICU.

But all I could think about was how old that boy was.

*****

I didn't go inside the ICU.

I found a quiet corner, sat down, and kept going through his phone.

The WhatsApp chat history stretched back a long way.

I started with the most recent messages and worked my way back, reading each one.

At 11 p.m. last night, James sent a photo.

It was a picture of him and the little boy at an amusement park, with the rides in the background. The boy was perched on his shoulders, and both of them were grinning from ear to ear.

He captioned it: [My son says he wants to be Ultraman when he grows up. I told him I'd buy him a costume.]

She sent a bunch of laughing emojis and said, [You spoil him.]

He replied, [He's my son. If I don't spoil him, who will?]

I stared at that photo.

James's smile was so real, so genuine.

I racked my brain, trying to remember the last time he smiled at me like that.

But I couldn't recall.

I kept scrolling back.

The night before last, she sent a voice message. I couldn't bring myself to play it, just stared at the audio bar.

James replied with a text: [Sweetheart, get some rest. I'll come over tomorrow afternoon.]

Sweetheart.

In ten years of marriage, he'd never called me "sweetheart."

He called me "honey," sometimes "Emily," but most often, he just called me "you."

I kept scrolling.

A week ago, she sent a screenshot of a bill. [Honey, our son's piano lessons need to be renewed. It's 2500 dollars.]

James replied, [Got it, I'll transfer it to you.]

Then there was a transfer for 2500 dollars, marked "Son's piano lessons."

I took a deep breath, exited the chat, and tapped into the transaction history of his bank account.

I started with the latest and scrolled through each entry.

2500 dollars, piano lessons.

1500 dollars, living expenses.

1000 dollars, son's sneakers.

2500 dollars, tutoring fees.

4000 dollars, overseas trip.

15 thousand dollars, car loan.

I stared at the "car loan" transaction.

Car loan?

James and I paid for our car in full three years ago. So where did the car loan come from?

I kept scrolling.

There was a 15,000 payment labeled "car loan."

Every single month, for three whole years.

$15,000 times 12, times 3.

540 thousand dollars in total.

I closed my eyes.

I kept scrolling.

The payment history started in 2017.

2017 marked our third year together.

That was the year I found out I was pregnant.

I remember it all too well. I had miscarried at three months.

That day, James said he was on a business trip and couldn't get away. I took a cab to the hospital by myself, went through the procedure alone, and lay in that hospital bed, crying all night.

I called him, and he told me, "This project is too important. I can't leave."

I believed him.

I always thought he was busting his ass for us.

Now, as I scrolled through his phone, the year 2017 suddenly hit me.

The little boy on his wallpaper looked about five or six years old.

It was 2024 now.

Which meant that kid must've been born in 2017 or 2018.

The year I lost my baby, she was giving birth to hers.

While I was lying alone in a hospital bed, he was by her side, helping her recover after the birth.

When I called him, he told me he was on a business trip and couldn't get away.

Turned out, he really was on a "business trip" after all.

Just not the kind I ever imagined.

He was on a "business trip" to be a dad.

A hollow laugh slipped out of me.

"Family of bed 3?" a nurse called out from the station.

James was in bed 3.

I stood up, my legs still shaky, and made my way over, steadying myself against the wall.

"What did the doctor say?" I asked.

"The surgery was a success. He's out of danger now. He's still in a coma, but the doctor says he should wake up tomorrow," the nurse replied.

"Okay."

The nurse glanced at me. "You don't look so good. Do you want to sit down for a bit?"

"No, I'm fine."

I gripped the phone tightly and walked toward the room.

The hallway stretched on, and I walked slowly.

Those numbers kept running through my mind.

2500 dollars for piano lessons.

15 thousand dollars for a car loan.

4000 dollars for a trip.

I hadn't bought anything over 60 bucks in ten years.

I hadn't taken a single trip in ten years.

I hadn't even touched my own bank card in ten years.

I thought he was working himself to the bone for our family.

Turned out, he was footing the bill for another one.

At the end of the hallway, the door to the room was open. Inside, the man lying there was my husband of ten years, 3,652 days.

It was the first time I'd ever seen his real phone.

And it was the first time I truly saw who he really was.