Chapter 2
I didn't stick around in that house for long.
I grabbed my suitcase and walked out. Michael called after me, "Wendy!" but I didn't stop.
As the elevator doors slid shut, I heard the baby crying again.
I checked into a budget hotel across the street from the apartment complex.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, my suitcase still unopened.
Inside was a windbreaker. Navy blue, Michael's size. I'd picked it up on sale at the mall near the Oakheim project site.
There was also a box of Oakheim coffee. He'd mentioned wanting to try it.
And a pair of slippers. He'd said last time that the ones at home were getting thin on the bottom.
I picked up the slippers, put them back in the suitcase, and zipped it up.
He already had new slippers at home. Pink ones.
My phone kept ringing. Michael's calls just kept coming. I switched it to silent, but the screen kept lighting up, on and off, on and off.
Messages kept popping up on WhatsApp.
[Wendy, don't do anything rash. Let's talk this through.]
[Just tell me where you are. I'm really worried about you being alone out there.]
[It's not what you think.]
Not what I think?
Then what is it?
I opened my Twitter and scrolled back to three months ago.
March 14th, the day before I left for Oakheim. Michael had posted: "Wife's off on a three-month trip—time to fend for myself starting today." With a crying laughing emoji.
The photo was a plate of pasta.
One of his coworkers commented, [With her gone, you're gonna end up skinny from starving.]
Michael replied, [Yeah, nobody's around to take care of me these days.]
March 14th.
I left the next day.
Half a month later, that woman moved into my home.
I scrolled back even further.
February. Valentine's Day. Michael had posted a picture of the two of us, captioned: "Year four, still going."
I remembered that night. He'd booked a table at a restaurant. After dinner, he said, "Next year, let's pick somewhere fancier."
I laughed. "We're still paying off the mortgage. Why waste money on a big meal? Let's just go home and cook some pasta."
He wrapped his arm around me and said, "Thank you, honey."
Thank you, honey.
On February 14th, he told me that.
I left on March 15th.
And on April 1st, another woman was sleeping in my bed.
I put my phone down.
The hotel blanket was thin, and the air conditioner buzzed in the background.
I'd flown back from Oakheim in three hours. After landing, it took another forty minutes on the subway to get home.
I'd been on the project for three months. Eighty-seven days. Working twelve hours or more every single day. The sun in Oakheim was brutal, and my face peeled twice from the sunburn.
The project was delivered ahead of schedule, and the client paid an extra 50 thousand dollars.
I was happy all day, thinking that extra money could help us pay down the mortgage ahead of schedule.
I opened my bank app.
This month's mortgage payment had already been debited—2900 dollars, straight from my card. Same as the last thirty-five months.
Automatic payments. I set it up myself.
Every single mortgage payment, from the very first one, had come out of my account.
Had Michael ever contributed to that account?
I scrolled through the transfer history.
Not a single one.
Thirty-six months. 2900 dollars every month.
I paid every single installment myself.
Outside the hotel window was just a road. It was eleven at night, and cars were still passing by.
I called my best friend, Whitney Blake.
"Whitney," I said.
"What's wrong? You sound off," she said.
"I'm back."
"Weren't you supposed to get back tomorrow?"
"I came back a day early," I replied.
I paused for a moment.
"I came home to find some woman, holding a baby, living in my place," I said.
There was about three seconds of silence on the other end.
"I'm coming over. Send me your location," Whitney said.
When Whitney arrived, she brought a bag of oranges and a bottle of water.
She didn't say much, but just sat down on the edge of the bed, peeled an orange, and handed it to me.
I took it.
"She was wearing pajamas," I said.
"Mmhmm," Whitney replied.
"They weren't new. Looked like they'd been washed a lot," I continued.
"Mmhmm."
"There was a baby feeding chart taped to the fridge."
"Mmhmm."
"My clothes were shoved all the way to the bottom of the drawer."
Whitney just stayed silent.
She took the orange from my hand, peeled off a segment, and offered it to me.
"Eat something first," she said.
I ate the orange segment.
It tasted really sour.
My phone lit up again.
This time, it wasn't Michael.
It was my mother-in-law, Penelope Johnson.
[Wendy, Michael told me everything. Don't rush. Come back tomorrow, and we'll sit down and talk.]
Sit down and talk?
I flipped my phone over, screen down.
Whitney glanced at me.
"What are you going to do tomorrow?" she asked.
I stared up at the ceiling.
"I've got something on my mind."
"What is it?" Whitney asked.
"He was the one who told me to take that Oakheim project," I said.
Whitney looked confused. "What do you mean?"
"When the Oakheim project came up in early March, nobody wanted to go. Three months on-site—it was brutal," I said.
"And then?" Whitney asked.
"Michael was the one who told me, 'Go for it. A big project like this will really help your promotion prospects. Three months will fly by, and I'll take care of everything at home,'" I said.
I paused for a moment.
"I'll take care of everything at home," I repeated.
Whitney gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
"Let's sleep on it. We'll figure things out tomorrow," she said.
Then, she turned off the lights.
I lay in the hotel bed and closed my eyes.
I couldn't get those pink slippers out of my head.
The soles were all worn out.
They weren't new.
She didn't just show up recently.
She'd been living in my place for quite a while.