PART 1 – Our 25th Wedding Anniversary
On our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, I told my wife that I had cheated on her. I consciously chose to say it in a restaurant. Not at home. Not during an argument. Not on a phone call. At the Olive Garden restaurant where we had celebrated our first wedding anniversary twenty-five years earlier. I had reserved the corner table that my wife always preferred, right by the window.
From there, she could see the cars in the parking lot and was far enough away from the other guests not to feel watched. I thought I had planned everything carefully. I had even decided to order first, for fear of losing my nerve otherwise. "The usual?" the waitress asked. My wife smiled. "Chicken Pesto Pasta for me." I nodded. "And the steak for me." She looked at me for a moment.
"You're quiet tonight." "A little." The dinner eventually cost exactly 150 dollars. A ridiculous amount, I thought later, for an evening that would change our entire marriage. As the waitress walked away, my wife picked up a breadstick. She broke it in half and looked at me questioningly. "What is it?" I took a deep breath. "I need to tell you something." She slowly laid the piece of bread down.
"Is there something wrong with the kids?" "No." "Are you sick?" "No." "Did you do something with our money?" I shook my head. Then I looked at her hands. For twenty-five years, I had held those hands. At our wedding. At the birth of our son. When my father died. When she lost her mother. When we bought our first house. And yet, I was about to tell her about the only person I had hidden from her all those years.
"In 2015," I said softly, "I had someone else." My wife did not move. I continued: "It lasted four months." She blinked once. "An affair?" I nodded. "Yes." She said nothing. "It's over. For years. I've never seen her again. I swear." My wife looked at me as if she were trying to understand why I was speaking at all. Then she asked: "Why are you telling me this now?" I swallowed.
"Because she called last week." For the first time, her face changed. "Who?" "That woman." "What did she want?" I looked at the tablecloth. "She has a daughter." My wife said nothing. "Fourteen years old." The silence between us grew heavier. "She says it's my daughter." My wife let the breadstick slip from her fingers. I rushed to keep talking. "I'm not sure.
I never took a DNA test. But..." "But?" "She looks like me." My wife looked away. "She has the same birthmark behind her left ear." I saw her fingers tighten around the edge of her napkin. "What does that woman want?" "Fifty thousand dollars." "Why?" "The daughter needs an operation." My wife finally looked back at me. "And you?" "I want to help." She didn't laugh.
She didn't cry. She didn't even scream. She only asked: "Did you promise her money?" "No." "Did you make an appointment with her?" "No." "Have you seen her again?" "No." "Then why are you telling me this?" I looked her straight in the eye. "Because I thought I couldn't hide it from you anymore." My wife remained silent for a few seconds. Then she picked up her handbag.
I thought she wanted to go to the restroom. Instead, she stood up. Calmly. Without haste. She put on her coat and looked down at me. 她的 voix was so calm that it terrified me more than if she had screamed. "I've known since 2016." I felt my throat go dry. "What?" "I knew." "How?" She looked at me as if she finally felt pity for me. "I never said anything." "Why?" "Because in 2015, when you were with her..." She fell silent.
I felt my heart beat faster. "...I was also in that same hotel." My face froze. "What hotel?" She didn't answer right away. Then she named the hotel. I recognized it immediately. The hotel where, for four months, I had told my wife I was staying overnight for work. The hotel where I had met that other woman. My wife continued: "You were on the fourth floor." I could barely breathe.
"And I was on the sixth." I looked at her. "You knew?" "Yes." "But how?" Ella opened her handbag. She pulled out an old, yellowed envelope. She placed it on the table. "I found this there." I looked at the envelope. My name was written on it. My full name. In my own handwriting. I felt my stomach contract. "What's in it?" "Read it." I wanted to open the envelope, but my hands were shaking.
My wife turned around. Then she stopped for one more second. "And before you read it..." She looked at me. "...you should know that the fourteen-year-old girl is not the only reason I am here today." With that, she walked away. I was left alone at our table. With my half-eaten steak. With her untouched pasta. And with a letter I had written myself fifteen years ago. Only, I couldn't remember to whom.
