I thought I had found true love, the kind of love they write novels about. My husband, so passionate, so devoted, with eyes that held the warmth of his Mediterranean home. He cherished his family, and when they visited, our house would fill with the melodic symphony of their Spanish conversations. I didn’t understand a word, of course, but I always found it charming. A sweet mystery, I’d tell myself, part of his beautiful culture. I trusted him implicitly. We were building a life, a future. One night, my old roommate, Patricia, joined us for dinner. Patricia, who’d lived abroad for years, fluent in practically everything. I watched her, smiling, as she effortlessly conversed with my husband’s mother, translating snippets of laughter for me. It was a lovely evening, warm and familiar, until it wasn’t.
Halfway through the meal, amidst a particularly animated exchange between my husband and his cousin, Patricia stiffened. Her fork clattered softly against her plate. She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in, and her eyes, usually so calm, were wide, darting from my husband’s smiling face to mine. “YOU NEED TO TALK TO YOUR HUSBAND. RIGHT NOW,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the Spanish chatter.
My heart began to pound. What? What could possibly be wrong? I asked, my own whisper barely a breath. “Why?”
She hesitated. Her gaze flicked to his family, then back to me, full of a pain that wasn’t hers. A deep, raw dread settled in my stomach. She took a shaky breath. “They… they were talking about… about his first wife. The one he said died. She’s… she’s not dead. And you’re just like her.”
The world tilted. No. NO. That’s impossible. I remembered his quiet grief, the way he’d sometimes look out the window with a faraway sadness, which I’d always attributed to missing his lost love. He’d shown me photos, spoken of her with reverence. My mind raced, trying to reconcile her words with everything I knew, everything I felt. My love. My trust. It couldn’t be a lie. It couldn’t.
I excused us, my hand trembling as I gripped his arm, pulling him into the quiet of the kitchen. His smile faltered as he saw my face. “What is she talking about?” I demanded, my voice a thin, reedy sound I barely recognized. “Patricia said your first wife isn’t dead.”
He went pale. The color drained from his face, leaving him a ghastly white. He looked at me, then down at the floor, then back at me with eyes full of a terrible, bottomless despair. He swallowed hard. A slow, agonizing nod. “She’s… gone. She’s not here anymore.”
“But not dead?” I choked out, my voice rising. “What does that MEAN?”
He raised his eyes to mine, filled with tears, and the truth, when it finally came, felt like a physical blow. “She isn’t dead,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “She’s… in a coma. Brain dead. For ten years. They… my family… they wanted me to move on. They said you… you were the perfect replacement.”
