I’ve been dating her for just over a year. It was a whirlwind, the kind of romance that sweeps you off your feet, makes you believe in fate. Every moment with her felt like a dream. We talked for hours, laughed until our sides hurt, and shared a connection I’d never experienced before. So, when I asked her to move in, it felt like the most natural progression, the next beautiful step in our journey together. We agreed on everything. My place, a two-bedroom I’d worked hard for. She didn’t want to contribute to rent or other bills; she said she didn’t want to feel like a tenant and me like a landlord. It was a strange request, I admit, but I brushed it off. I told her it was fine by me. More than fine. I was just excited I’d wake up next to her every single day, her scent on my pillow, her sleepy smile greeting the morning. It was going to be perfect.
Moving day came. I rented a small van, though she only had a few boxes. Light stuff, she said. I got her boxes to the apartment, hauled them up the stairs, helped her get settled. We laughed as we stacked them neatly in the spare room, her ‘office-to-be.’ Her energy was infectious. Then I headed to the store to grab groceries and make a special dinner—you know, with candles and wine, to celebrate this new chapter. This new life.
I walked back through the door, humming a little tune, two bags laden with fancy cheese, fresh pasta, and that expensive bottle of wine we both loved. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. I noticed the spare room door was ajar, and a small, brightly colored blanket had fallen out of one of the boxes, draped onto the floor. Just a blanket, I thought. Maybe a gift for a niece? But it was a tiny blanket, embroidered with little cartoon animals. My stomach gave a strange lurch.
I walked closer, setting the bags down. One of her boxes, carefully taped, now had a tear along the side. Inside, I saw a glimpse of something else. Something small. Something… unfamiliar. My heart began to pound a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. No. It can’t be what I think it is. A cold dread began to seep into my bones, replacing the warmth of anticipation. I reached out a trembling hand and carefully peeled back the tape, pushing aside a folded sweater.
And that’s when the wine LITERALLY slips out of my hands, crashing to the hardwood floor, the glass shattering, the crimson liquid spreading like a wound. Because every single one of her carefully sealed boxes wasn’t just filled with her personal belongings, her clothes, or her books. Every single one of them, from the smallest to the largest, was overflowing with baby clothes, tiny shoes, a stroller, toddler toys, and framed photos. Photos of her, yes. But in every single one, she wasn’t alone. She was cradling a baby. Then a toddler. And next to her, in every single photograph, was a man. A man who was most definitely not me.
My world didn’t just stop. It imploded. The air was sucked out of my lungs. I stared, paralyzed, at the evidence of a complete, entire, hidden life. A life she’d meticulously concealed for over a year. A husband? A child? Plural? And all of it, right here, in my apartment, in the boxes I had just carried in. I felt a scream building in my chest, a primal howl of betrayal and agony.
I spun around, finding her in the living room, humming softly, arranging flowers I’d bought her earlier. She looked up, her smile bright, then saw the broken wine bottle, the mess, and finally, my face. The terror in my eyes. Her smile evaporated.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion.
“GET OUT!” I roared, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and broken. My voice shook with a rage I didn’t know I possessed, a pain that consumed me whole. “GET OUT! I said move in. I didn’t say move your entire SECRET FAMILY in! GET. OUT. NOW!”
Her face went pale. The flowers slipped from her grasp, scattering across the rug. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but the gaping hole in my chest. The weight of her deceit pressed down on me, suffocating me. And I knew, with a certainty that ripped me apart, that I would never, ever be able to look at her the same way again. The dream was gone. It was never real.
