When we were invited to an old college friend’s wedding, my husband Max snapped, “I’m not going!” The plan was for him to take the kids out while I attended. It felt like a familiar dance. Him, refusing to engage in anything remotely social; me, always making excuses for him. But this time, it was different. I really wanted to go. It had been years since I’d seen this group, since I’d felt like me outside of being a wife and mother. So, I left him with the kids and drove for hours, a strange mix of guilt and anticipation bubbling inside me. The autumn air was crisp, the leaves turning brilliant shades of red and gold. Maybe a night away would do us good, a little space. I told myself I’d enjoy the open bar, dance like I used to, and just reconnect. For once, I wouldn’t worry about Max’s discomfort or his usual dark moods. I was just going to be present.
The venue was breathtaking, an old barn transformed into a wonderland of fairy lights and wildflowers. Hugs, laughter, familiar faces. The warmth of nostalgia was immediate, a comfort I hadn’t realized I craved so desperately. Everyone asked about Max, and I gave my usual line – “Oh, you know Max, hates big crowds, volunteered to be on kid duty!” They nodded, understanding smiles, probably used to his quirks. They knew him so well, or so I thought.
Then, it was time for the ceremony. I found a seat near the back, watching the procession. The bride was radiant, a vision in lace. And then, the groom appeared. A gasp caught in my throat. He looked… familiar. So incredibly familiar. No, it can’t be. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew that walk, the slight stoop in his shoulders, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. It was like looking at a ghost, or a younger version of someone I saw every single day. My mind raced, trying to place him, grasping at fragments of memory from college days.
Later, during the reception, a group of us were catching up. The bride and groom moved through the crowd, greeting everyone. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?” one friend gushed. “Always has been. Max used to tell us so many stories about them growing up.” The words hit me like a physical blow. Stories? Max told me he was an only child. He’d woven a tale of a lonely childhood, of parents who moved him constantly, no siblings, no deep connections. A narrative that had always explained his quiet, withdrawn nature.
I felt a cold dread spread through me. No, it has to be a mistake. “Who are you talking about?” I managed to ask, my voice sounding thin and reedy. My friend looked at me, confused. “The groom! Max’s younger brother. You know, the one Max was always so protective of?” MY MIND SCREAMED. The one Max supposedly never had. The one whose existence he had hidden from me for fifteen years of marriage. Everything went silent, the music, the laughter, all faded into a buzzing roar. Max hadn’t skipped the wedding because he hated crowds. He hadn’t wanted me to meet his brother. His brother, who I’d been told was dead.
