Chapter 3
I knew who Zachary's ex-wife was.
Her name was Sophia Sullivan, thirty.
They met in college, dated six years, then broke up due to long distance.
When he told me, he sounded quite relaxed about it.
He said, "We were young and clueless. Now, it doesn't matter.
"That's all behind me now."
I believed him then.
I only noticed some things after we married.
On his phone, someone named "Sophie" was pinned at the top.
I asked him, "Who is this?"
"Just a colleague from my old company," he replied.
I didn't push him any further.
I noticed he was always messaging Sophie.
He sometimes texted her late at night, around eleven or midnight.
I asked, "Are you working this late?"
He smiled, "She's felt low lately, so I'm helping her."
"Who is she to you?" I asked.
"Just a friend," he replied.
Just a friend?
I didn't think much of it at the time.
Before we married, he said he couldn't say no and was always there for his friends.
I once saw that as a good quality.
Looking back, it feels stupid.
On day ten of my postpartum recovery, he left his phone at home.
He left for work, and his phone buzzed on the table.
I glanced at the screen.
It was a message from Sophie.
[Feeling better today? Thanks for the amazing soup yesterday.]
Soup?
What soup?
I just stood there stunned and left his phone alone.
When he got home that night, I asked, "How was your day?"
"Not bad. I ran errands at lunch," he replied.
"What was it about?" I asked.
"Just went to see a friend who wasn't feeling well," he stated.
He sounded completely normal, his face revealing nothing.
I didn't ask any further questions.
From that day, I paid closer attention to his phone.
He never took his eyes off his phone.
He even brought it into the bathroom with him.
At night, he kept it beneath his pillow.
I saw his screen only briefly while nursing.
He was chatting with Sophie through voice messages.
One voice message after the other.
He grinned as he sent them.
I pretended not to have seen anything.
On the fifteenth day, he said he was leaving for a company retreat.
"It's a two-day, one-night trip. We'll stay at a hotel. Will you be okay alone?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'll be fine," I answered.
He posted nothing on social media for two days.
I checked all group photos from the trip, but he wasn't in any.
I called him and asked, "Was the retreat fun?"
"It was exhausting. I drank a lot," he said.
"Did you take any photos? If so, please send them to me," I asked.
"Nah, I was too busy drinking," he said.
He returned smelling of perfume.
It wasn't his usual scent.
I didn't ask.
Day seventeen, yesterday.
He came home early, by eight.
He stayed in the living room, talking on the phone.
He kept his voice low, but I still caught a few words.
"Don't worry, I'll come pick you up tomorrow.
"What do you want to eat? I'll bring it to you.
"Good girl."
Good girl?
Who the hell is he calling good girl?
I lay in bed, my heart sinking in cold.
But I stayed in bed and avoided him.
I just wanted to see how far he would go.
Day eighteen.
He was up by seven.
He usually slept until eight, so he woke an hour early today.
He quickly washed and changed.
I simply held the baby and nursed quietly.
He went to the door and put on his shoes.
"I'm heading out for a bit," he said.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Sophia's in the hospital. I'm going to check on her," he replied.
He said it as if it were no big deal.
He acted like he was just going downstairs for breakfast.
Sophia.
He finally admitted it.
Sophie is his ex-wife.
"Did you take time off work?" I asked.
"Yeah," he replied.
"How many days?" I asked.
"A week," he said.
A week?
Seven days.
When our baby was born, he took no days off.
In eighteen days postpartum, he never asked for time off.
He took seven days off when his ex-wife, Sophia Sullivan, was hospitalized.
Seven days.
I just laughed.
"Sure, go," I said.
He paused, surprised I was so cool with it.
"I'll be back this afternoon," he stammered.
"Don't bother," I replied.
I looked down at the baby in my arms.
"Stay and do whatever you want."
He stood at the door and stared at me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I replied.
I looked up at him and smiled.
"Just go."
He left.
The moment the door closed behind him, I gently placed the baby in the crib.
I got up, walked to the living room, and picked up the iPad on the coffee table.
He always kept his phone close but left the iPad lying around.
I typed in the password.
It was his birthday.
It worked.
I opened WhatsApp and found the pinned chat.
The label read "Sophie".
Her profile picture was a selfie with long hair, big eyes, and a round face.
She looked younger than me.
I opened it up.
The chat history dated back six months.
That was shortly after we got married.
The first message came from him.
[Sophie, I'm married now,] he texted.
She replied, [I know. Hope you're happy.]
He replied, [Hope you're happy too.]
Then there were three months of silence.
Three months later, she sent him another message.
[Zachary, I'm struggling. Can I talk to you?] she texted.
He replied, [What's wrong?]
After that, they never stopped texting each other.
She started venting about work stress, then about her life.
And eventually she texted, [Zachary, I miss you.]