Chapter 2

[I made some bacon, and that wine you brought is just perfect with it—Rupert, same day.]

[The tree in the yard is bearing fruit, and it's sweeter than last year.—Scarlet, March 15th, five years ago.]

[Next time, I'll take you foraging for wild mushrooms on the mountain out back. I found a secret spot there last year. No one else knows about it—Rupert, same day.]

[Gave the courtyard walls a fresh coat of paint, still that slate gray you love—Scarlet, March 9th, last year.]

[Stay safe on your way. I already picked up your favorite oranges—Rupert, March 10th, last year.]

Every post was filled with the warmth of everyday life—no hint of romance, but it hit me harder than any sweet talk ever could.

The courtyard, the bacon, the rice wine, the peach tree—these were places and moments I'd never seen or even imagined.

To me, Rupert was the steady husband, the reliable father. He'd remember when I was on my period, help the kids with their homework, and always bring me roses for our anniversary.

But he never once told me that every March, he'd vanish to some town I'd never even heard of, playing house with another woman.

I started noticing little details in Scarlet's posts.

One time, she posted a photo of her beautiful handwriting: [Twenty years have passed, and we've been accompanying each other.]

Rupert commented underneath: [It's a lifelong promise. Every year, I return to Scarlet.]

Turns out, for twenty years, they'd been keeping their promise in perfect sync, while I was kept in the dark for eighteen years, playing the fool.

I remembered how every March, Rupert always found some reason to leave town.

"The company's sending me down south for a project. I'll be gone for a month."

"A relative back home is sick. I need to go take care of them for a while."

"I'm going hiking with some friends, taking the trail. Should be about a month."

I never once suspected a thing. Every time he came back from one of his "business trips," he'd bring me treats from wherever he'd been, souvenirs for the kids, and he'd share stories from the road, never missing a beat, acting like everything was perfectly normal.

Me? My heart would go out to him, worrying he was working too hard, always telling him to stay safe and get some rest.

Now that I thought about it, those so-called "local specialties" were probably handpicked by the two of them in that little town.

And all those stories he shared with me? They were probably just little moments he and Scarlet lived together.

And me? I was so happy, clutching those gifts, thinking they were his way of showing he cared about us, never realizing they were really souvenirs from his life with her.

My stomach twisted in knots, and I bolted to the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, dry-heaving. Nothing came up, just the bitter burn of bile in my throat.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror was pale, her eyes swollen and red, her hair a mess. She looked like a total wreck—pathetic and broken.

This was the man I'd loved for eighteen years. This was the so-called happy marriage I'd believed in.

I went back to my computer, my fingers numb with cold, but I couldn't help myself. I kept scrolling through their shared feed.

Suddenly, a photo made my blood run cold.

It was from March, three years ago, a picture Scarlet had posted of her and Rupert together.

In the photo, they were sitting together on the porch steps, sunlight streaming through the leaves, casting mottled shadows over them.

Rupert was in a gray knit sweater, a book in his hand, his face gentle in the light. Scarlet was nestled against his shoulder, smiling with her eyes all lit up.

She wore a plain silver ring on her finger, matching the one Rupert had on his left ring finger—identical in every way.

Rupert always told me he'd bought that ring back in college, and after wearing it for so many years, he was so used to it, he couldn't bear to take it off.

I believed him, even complimented how timeless it looked, and how it symbolized forever.

Turns out, it wasn't just his thing. It was their shared token, a symbol of their bond.

Under the photo, Scarlet had written: [Twentieth time we've kept our promise. The courtyard hasn't changed, and neither have you.]

Rupert replied: [May every year be just like this, for the rest of our lives.]

But what about me? What about our kid? Where do we even belong in his so-called "forever"? Are we just the scenery for his performance as the perfect husband and dad? Just the decorations he puts up to make his life look good, while the real story is happening with her?

My tears landed on the keyboard and leaving blurry, watery stains.

I wanted to pick up the phone and call Rupert right that second, to march into his office and slam all this proof down in front of him. I wanted to demand if those eighteen years of kindness were nothing but a sham, to ask if he ever truly gave a damn about me and the kids.

But with my finger hovering over the dial, I just couldn't make myself press it.

I was scared—scared he'd deny it, but even more scared he'd admit it.

I was terrified that all eighteen years of our marriage had been nothing but a carefully crafted lie.

I was afraid that the happiness I'd always believed in was just a mirage, ready to shatter the moment I reached out for it.