My husband went on a business trip to another city for a month, and I decided to move his favorite cactus in a pot to another place, but accidentally broke it while carrying it. But what I discovered in the broken pot forever changed my life. How strange that our lives can be changed by completely random events.
Ordinary, almost insignificant little things suddenly turn everything upside down, and after that nothing remains the same. For me, such a turning point was an ordinary cactus. Probably, I should start my story with that.
It was early Saturday morning. The spring sun flooded our apartment with soft, golden light. My husband John had gone on a whole month business trip to New York.
He worked in a large construction company, and such long absences happened often. I was already used to his absence, although, of course, I always missed him, taking advantage of the fact that I was left alone in the apartment, I decided to do a small rearrangement of furniture. I had long wanted to change the interior a bit, refresh the atmosphere, but John was a conservative and liked everything to stay in its place.
He was especially reverent about his collection of cacti, which he had been collecting for several years. On the windowsill in our bedroom stood a whole line of prickly plants of different shapes and sizes. John cared for them with some special tenderness, which he rarely showed towards me.
Among all this prickly company, one cactus stood out. Large, with fleshy leaves and sharp, long needles. John called it “General”.
This cactus appeared in our house about three years ago, and my husband always treated it with special attention. Even when going on business trips, he left me detailed instructions on how to care for this particular plant. It was strange, of course, such an attachment to a prickly inhabitant of the windowsill, but I didn’t attach much importance to it.
People can have all sorts of quirks and passions. That morning I decided to move the chest of drawers that stood against the wall opposite the bed. For several months I had been haunted by the thought that it would look much better by the window.
Perhaps if I move it now, John, upon returning, will appreciate my efforts and won’t object to such changes. I pushed the chest of drawers away from the wall and began to slowly move it across the room. It turned out to be not as easy as I thought.
The massive oak furniture yielded to my efforts with difficulty, but I stubbornly pushed it towards the intended goal. Finally, breathing heavily, I installed the chest of drawers in the new place. Right where I wanted.
Right under the windowsill with the cacti. Stepping back a few steps, I critically examined the result of my labors. Yes, that’s much better.
The room immediately acquired a more harmonious look. But something bothered me. The cacti.
Now they stood right above the chest of drawers, and every time I opened the drawers, I risked touching these prickly plants. I needed to move them. But where? I looked around, searching for a suitable place.
I could move them to the windowsill in the living room, but my violets were already there. There was no place for them in the kitchen either. After a short deliberation, I decided to temporarily place the cacti on a shelf in the hallway.
The light there wasn’t as good as in the bedroom, but it was only temporary. When John returns, we’ll decide together where they should be. Carefully, trying not to prick myself, I began to move the plants, one by one.
The small cacti fit easily in my palm, and there were no problems with them. But when it came to the General, I hesitated. This cactus was not only the largest, but also the prickliest.
Moreover, its clay pot looked quite heavy. First, I put on gardening gloves to protect my hands from the needles. Then I carefully grasped the pot from the bottom and lifted it.
It really turned out to be much heavier than I expected. As if it was filled not with ordinary soil, but with something denser and weightier. Slowly, trying not to make sudden movements, I carried the cactus across the room.
Everything was going well until my gaze fell on the photograph standing on the bedside table. Our wedding photo. John and I, so happy and in love, looking at each other with tenderness.
This photo always evoked a warm feeling in me, but lately a slight sadness mixed in with it. Something had changed between us in six years of marriage. The lightness and openness with which we once treated each other had disappeared.
I was so lost in thought, looking at the photograph, that I didn’t notice the corner of the rug, which I tripped over. The pot slipped out of my hands and hit the floor with a dull sound. The clay cracked, scattering into several large shards, the soil spilled out in a shapeless heap, and the poor General fell on its side, losing several of its impressive needles.
Oh, John will be furious. I immediately imagined his displeased face, reproaches, maybe even cold silence, which was always worse than any words. But there was nothing to do, I had to fix the situation.
I ran to the kitchen for a dustpan and brush to collect the scattered soil. Returning to the bedroom, I knelt down in front of the scene of the accident and began to carefully rake the soil onto the dustpan. And then my gaze fell on something strange among the clods of soil.
It was a small metal object, glistening in the rays of the morning sun. At first I thought it was just some trash that accidentally got into the pot when repotting the plant. But when I took it in my hands, I realized it was a key.
A small, neat key, similar to those used to open mailboxes or small boxes. Where did a key come from in a cactus pot? I twirled it in my hands in bewilderment. Maybe John accidentally dropped it there when repotting the plant? But if so, why didn’t he get it out? I set the key aside and continued collecting the soil.
And then my fingers felt something else. This time, it was a small plastic bag, tightly sealed and smeared with soil. I carefully cleaned it and held it up to the light.
Inside the bag was a flash drive. The most ordinary, black, without any identification marks. What was it doing in the cactus pot? And why did John hide it there? Questions swarmed in my head, but there were no answers.
I set the bag with the flash drive next to the key and continued to sort through the soil, now carefully examining every clump. And my efforts were not in vain. At the very bottom of the pot, almost at the bottom, I found another object.
A small metal box, slightly larger than a matchbox. It was covered with a thin layer of rust, as if it had lain in the ground for many years. I twirled it in my hands, trying to find the keyhole.
And indeed, on one side there was a tiny hole, perfectly suited for the found key. My heart beat faster. What kind of cache had my husband set up in an ordinary cactus pot? What had he been hiding from me all these years? I looked at the small key, then at the box.
Open it or not? On the one hand, these were John’s personal things, and I had no right to rummage through them without his knowledge. On the other hand, why did he keep something in such a strange place, obviously hiding it from me? In our family, there had never been secrets from each other. At least, that’s what I thought until this moment.
After a moment’s hesitation, curiosity won. I inserted the key into the keyhole and carefully turned it. The mechanism clicked, and the lid of the box opened slightly.
I held my breath and flipped the lid open completely. Inside lay a tightly rolled thin paper. I carefully pulled it out and unfolded it.
It was an old photograph, yellowed with time, with curled corners. It depicted a young woman with a child in her arms. The woman was smiling at the camera, and the child, still an infant, slept peacefully, pressed against her chest.
I had never seen this woman before. She didn’t look like any of John’s relatives that I knew. She had long dark hair, expressive eyes, and some special, sad smile.
Who was she? And why did John keep her photograph in such a secret place? Turning the picture over, I found an inscription on the back. The faded ink was barely legible, but I still managed to read it. Two lines, written in neat feminine handwriting.
Sarah and David. Together forever. June 10, 2009.
Sarah? Who is Sarah? And David? Is that the child’s name? But what does John have to do with it? Why did he keep this photograph in a cache? I put the picture back in the box and picked up the flash drive. Now I wanted even more to know what was on it. But for that, I needed a computer.
Leaving the cactus and the scattered soil on the floor, I hurried to the living room, where our laptop stood. My hands trembled a little as I turned it on and inserted the flash drive into the USB port. A window with the contents of the drive appeared on the screen.
Several folders with incomprehensible names. Numbers, letters, no hint of their contents. I opened the first folder.
Inside were PDF documents. I clicked on the first one, and a scanned passport appeared on the screen. Not mine and not John’s.
The passport was issued to David Miller. Date of birth. June 10, 2009.
The same day that was indicated on the photograph. The next document was the birth certificate of this same David. Mother.
Sarah Miller. And the father’s name made me freeze in place. Father….
John Anderson. My husband. My vision darkened, the room swam before my eyes.
How is this possible? John has a child. A child he never told me about. And a woman.
This Sarah, who is she to him. I mechanically opened other documents. Marriage certificate between John Anderson and Sarah Miller dated May 15, 2009.
Contract for the purchase of an apartment in their joint names. Insurance policy for all three. John, Sarah and their son David.
It was like a punch in the gut. John is married? He has another family? A child? But how is this possible? After all, we’ve been married for 6 years. I frantically compared the dates.
Marriage to this Sarah was concluded in May 2009. And our wedding with John took place in September 2017. It turns out that at the time of our wedding he was already married? All these years I was.
Who? A mistress? A second wife? A being with no official status. My head was spinning from the abundance of information and emotions that overwhelmed me. But I forced myself to continue studying the contents of the flash drive.
In the next folder I found photographs. Dozens, hundreds of photographs. And in all of them was she.
Sarah. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the child, sometimes. With John.
Here they are all three on a beach. Here they are celebrating some birthday. Here is a Christmas morning at kindergarten, proud parents filming their son’s performance.
Ordinary family photos. Just like the ones John and I have. Only in these photographs, another woman was in my place.
I didn’t know what to think. How did John manage to lead a double life? How did he manage to divide his time between two families? And most importantly, why did he do it? In the third folder I found videos. I clicked play on the first file, and John’s face appeared on the screen.
He was looking straight into the camera, and there was some alertness in his gaze. “If you’re watching this video, Sarah, it means something went wrong,” he began. “I want you to know.
I love you and Davey more than anything in the world. Everything I do, I do for you. If something happens to me, there are all the necessary documents in the box.
Bank accounts, real estate, insurance. Everything is in your and our son’s name. You’ll be safe.
I promise.” The video ended, and I continued to stare at the screen, not believing my eyes and ears. Loves more than anything in the world.
And what about me? Where do I fit in this picture of the world? I opened a few more videos. Some had ordinary family moments. The boy’s birthday, some trips, home gatherings.
In others, John again addressed the camera, talking about some affairs, about potential danger, about the need to be careful. He spoke incoherently, used some hints, clearly afraid to call things by their names. I scrolled to the end of the folder and came across a video dated last month.
Just a few weeks ago. In it, John was standing in some room that looked like a hotel room. “Sarah, I’ll be delayed in Miami for a couple more days,” he said.
“Things aren’t going as smoothly as I’d like. Kiss Davey for me and tell him dad will be back soon. Miami.”
But John told me he was going to Chicago for a meeting with partners. He lied to me. However, after everything I’d seen, this deception seemed like a trifle.
I closed the video and leaned back in the chair. Complete chaos reigned in my head. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that the man I’d lived with for six years, whom I trusted, whom I loved, had been leading a double life all this time.
He was a husband to two women, a father to a child whose existence I didn’t even suspect. How is this possible? How did he manage to divide his time between us? I tried to remember how often John was away from home. Business trips.
He was constantly going on business trips. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a week, and sometimes for a month. I never questioned the necessity of these trips.
His job required frequent travel, and I accepted it as a given. And now it turns out that these business trips. Or at least some of them.
Were nothing more than time spent with the other family. This thought was so wild, so incredible, that I couldn’t accept it. I opened the folder with documents again and began to methodically review them.
Maybe I misunderstood something. Maybe there’s some other explanation. But the more documents I reviewed, the more obvious the picture became.
John had another family that I knew nothing about. Among the documents, I found a lease agreement for an apartment in Boston. The apartment was rented in the name of Sarah Miller, even before my wedding with John.
And judging by the renewal dates, she still lived there. In Boston? Just a few hours drive from our city. I felt nausea rising in my throat.
I needed fresh air. I turned off the computer, pulled out the flash drive and went to the window. Opening it wide, I took several deep breaths, trying to calm down.
What should I do now? How to react to such a discovery? My first impulse was to immediately call John and demand explanations. But I restrained myself. In this state, I was unlikely to be able to have a constructive dialogue.
Moreover, it might be better to figure it out myself first, gather as much information as possible before confronting him. My gaze fell on the clock. Almost noon.
I had spent several hours at the computer, not even noticing how time flew by. My stomach treacherously growled, reminding me that I hadn’t had breakfast yet. But the thought of food caused revulsion.
How can I think about food when my life has just shattered into thousands of shards, like that ill-fated cactus pot? The pot. I completely forgot about it. The soil was still scattered on the floor in the bedroom, and the poor cactus lay on its side.
I needed to clean everything up, but I had no strength for it. Instead, I returned to the computer and inserted the flash drive again. This time I decided to carefully study all the files, all the documents, to get a complete picture.
Among other things, I found bank statements. The accounts were opened in the name of Sarah Miller, but regular deposits came from John’s card. The amounts were quite significant…
About the same as he brought home monthly as salary. It turns out that all these years he divided his income between two families. But he always said that he didn’t earn as much as he would like.
We saved, set aside for the future, denied ourselves some things. But in fact, he was just giving half of his income to another woman and child. I tried to remember when I first noticed some strangeness in John’s behavior.
But nothing specific came to mind. He had always been a caring husband, called from business trips, brought gifts, was interested in my affairs. Yes, lately he had become more withdrawn, sometimes absent-minded, but I attributed it to fatigue and work problems. How blind I was.
How I didn’t notice the obvious signs. Now, looking back, I could recall a multitude of little things that should have alerted me. His strange calls, which he preferred to make not from home, but somewhere on the street or in the car.
His unexpected changes in business trip schedules. He would return earlier, then delay without much explanation. His reluctance to have children, although we used to talk about it as a matter of course.
A child. John already had a child. A son.
Who should now be about 14 years old. A teenager. And all these years I thought we postponed having children for financial reasons and the desire to get on our feet first.
From these thoughts, tears welled up in my eyes. I felt deceived, used, thrown to the side of his real life. Who was I to him all these years? Entertainment? A backup option? Or just a convenient screen for his dark dealings? I remembered the strange video where John talked about some danger, about the need to be careful.
Maybe his double life was connected to something illegal. Maybe he was involved in some dubious affairs. Work.
John always said he worked in a construction company, dealing with material supplies, negotiating with partners. But was that the truth? I had never been to his office, didn’t know his colleagues. He always kept his work life separate from home.
I decided to check. There should be some documents related to his work on the flash drive. And indeed, in one of the folders I found contracts, agreements, business correspondence.
But the company mentioned in these documents was called completely different from the one where, according to John, he worked. And the field of activity was different. Not construction, but logistics.
International transportation. The further I delved into the study of the documents, the more confused I became. Some contracts were drawn up in foreign languages, with companies from countries I knew almost nothing about.
The amounts mentioned in these documents made me doubt their legality. Where did a modest supply manager get such money? In one of the last folders, I found something that finally knocked me off track. These were scans of passports.
Not one, but several. And all of them were issued in John’s name, but with different surnames. Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson.
Why does a person need several passports with different surnames? The answer suggested itself, but I was afraid to even mentally formulate it. It was already getting dark outside when I finally tore myself away from the computer. My head was buzzing from the abundance of information, my eyes were tired from staring at the screen.
I felt devastated, squeezed like a lemon. But at the same time, somewhere deep inside, determination was born. I had to find out the whole truth, no matter how bitter it was.
First, I needed to check if this Sarah and her son David really existed, or if it was some sophisticated invention. Photographs and videos could be fake, documents fabricated.
I needed irrefutable proof. I took out my phone and opened social networks. If this woman is real, she should have accounts, photos, friends.
I entered “Sarah Miller” in the search bar and got a lot of results. Too many to view each profile. I needed to narrow the search.
I returned to the flash drive and found Sarah’s date of birth in the documents. February 27, 1985. She was three years older than me.
I added this information to the search query, and the results became significantly fewer. Now I needed to compare the photos with the one I found in the box. After a few minutes of viewing, I found her.
The profile was closed, with minimal personal information, but the main photo left no doubt. It was the same woman. Dark hair, expressive eyes, sad smile.
Only now she looked older than in the photograph from the box, which was quite natural. Scrolling through her posts, which were available even without adding as a friend, I saw several photos of a teenage boy. He was strikingly similar to John.
The same eyes, the same lip shape, even the way he smiled. Dimples appeared in the corners of the mouth, which I loved so much in my husband. There were no doubts left. Sarah and David existed.
They were real people, not the product of someone’s sick imagination. And apparently, they really were John’s family. His real family.
I scrolled through Sarah’s feed and came across a post dated last week. The photo showed a set table with a birthday cake, and the caption read: “Happy birthday, beloved husband.
May all your dreams come true.” John’s birthday was last week. He celebrated it on a business trip.
Or rather, as I now understood, with his other family. Bitterness and resentment overwhelmed me with new force. I threw the phone on the couch and burst into tears.
Loudly, sobbing, as I hadn’t cried in many years. All the accumulated tension, the shock of the discovery, the pain of betrayal. All this poured out in a stream of tears. I don’t know how long I sat like that, giving vent to my emotions.
Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. When I finally calmed down, it was already dark outside. I felt empty, but at the same time strangely liberated.
As if I had cried out not only the pain, but also part of my former personality. That naive, trusting woman who blindly believed her husband. Wiping away my tears, I picked up the phone again.
Now I needed to learn as much as possible about this Sarah. Who is she? What does she do? How long has she known John? Despite the closed profile, I managed to learn something from publicly available information. Place of work.
Some company, East Trans. Judging by the name, related to transport or logistics. The same sphere in which, as I learned from the documents, John actually worked.
A few friends, common interests. Nothing special, nothing that could explain why John led a double life. I thought.
If Sarah really considers herself John’s legal wife, she probably doesn’t know about my existence. Or does she? Maybe she is the same victim of deception as I am. I needed to talk to her. Directly, face to face.
But how to arrange it? I couldn’t just send her a message. “Good day, I’m your husband’s wife. Let’s meet and discuss the situation.”
It would sound like the beginning of a cheap melodrama. But I needed answers. And it seemed that Sarah was the only person besides John who could give them to me.
I returned to the documents on the flash drive and found the address of the apartment Sarah rented. Boston, Academic Street, house 15, apartment 42. I wrote down the address, trying to decide what to do next.
Go to Boston? Right now? It seemed like madness. But sitting and waiting for John’s return, pretending nothing happened, was even madder. Moreover, I didn’t know when he would actually return.
He said the business trip would last a month, but now I understood that I couldn’t believe a single word he said. The decision came by itself. I’ll go to Boston.
Tomorrow. I’ll find this Sarah and talk to her. Maybe she knows more than I do. Maybe she herself is a victim of John’s deception.
Or maybe she is his accomplice in some dark affairs. In any case, I had to find out the truth. Having made the decision, I felt strange relief.
At least now I had a plan of action, something concrete to cling to in this chaos. I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. Despite the lack of appetite, I needed to eat something.
The day had been hard, and tomorrow promised to be even harder. I would need strength. Opening the refrigerator, I mechanically took out products and began to prepare a simple dinner.
My hands moved on autopilot, making familiar movements, while my thoughts continued to revolve around the discovered secret. How could John lead a double life? How did he manage to lie to both of us without arousing suspicion? And most importantly. Why? Why did he need two families, two homes, two lives? The financial aspect also haunted me.
Maintaining two families required considerable funds. Where did John get such money? An ordinary job in a logistics company was unlikely to provide such a level of income. Maybe he really was involved in something illegal.
I remembered his strange video message to Sarah, where he talked about some danger, about the need to be careful. Maybe he was connected to the criminal world? Maybe all this double life was part of some complex scheme? But what? Questions multiplied, and there were no answers. I understood that without a conversation with John or Sarah, I would remain in the dark.
But I couldn’t wait for my husband’s return. Too much lie, too many secrets. I had to act now.
After dinner, I began to pack for the road. The train to Boston left early in the morning, I could buy a ticket online. I packed a small bag with the essentials, not knowing how long I would be in the city.
Then I checked my bank account. There was enough money for the trip and staying in a hotel for a few days. The last thing I did was clean up the mess in the bedroom.
I collected the pot shards, swept up the scattered soil, put the cactus in a new pot. The damaged plant looked a bit rumpled, but seemed quite viable. It’s funny how such a trifle as a broken pot could lead to such global changes in my life.
After finishing the cleaning, I took a shower and went to bed. Despite the fatigue, sleep didn’t come. I tossed and turned from side to side, replaying the events of the day in my head, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my life, which I considered quite prosperous, was actually built on lies.
Around three in the morning, I finally fell into a restless sleep, full of strange, disturbing visions. I dreamed of John, but with a different face. He spoke to me, but his words were incomprehensible, like in a foreign language.
And somewhere nearby was always that woman, Sarah, with a child in her arms, looking at me with a sad smile. I woke up to the sound of the alarm clock at six in the morning. My head was heavy after a sleepless night, but my determination hadn’t left me.
I quickly got ready, called a taxi and went to the station. The train to Boston left at 7:30. I took my seat by the window and prepared for the three-hour journey. Outside the window flashed city outskirts, replaced by fields and forests, but I hardly paid attention to them. My thoughts were occupied with the upcoming meeting with Sarah.
What will I say to her? How will I explain my appearance? And most importantly. How will she react to the news that her husband is married to another woman? I imagined myself in her place. How would I react if a stranger appeared at my door, claiming to be my husband’s wife? Most likely, I wouldn’t believe it.
I would think it was some ridiculous joke or mistake. I needed proof. Something that would convince Sarah of the truth of my words.
I took out my phone and looked through my photos with John. Here’s our wedding photo. We’re standing under an arch of flowers, happy and in love.
Here’s a photo from our honeymoon in Italy. And here’s last year’s New Year. John in a funny Santa hat hugging me by the shoulders.
These photos should convince Sarah that I’m not some crazy fantasist. But are they enough? Maybe take the marriage certificate with me? It was at home, in the document drawer. No, I decided. Photos should be enough.
Besides, I had the flash drive with documents that I found in the cactus pot. If necessary, I’ll show them to Sarah. The train arrived in Boston right on schedule.
10:25 am. I stepped out onto the noisy platform of the central station and plunged into the hustle and bustle of the big city. I had never been in this city before, and in another situation, I might have been impressed by the scale and energy of the metropolis.
But now I wasn’t up to sightseeing. I was focused on my goal. I called a taxi and gave the address.
Academic Street, house 15. The driver nodded and drove me across the city. The journey took about an hour due to traffic, and all this time I tried to collect my thoughts, prepare for the upcoming conversation.
But the closer we got to the destination, the more excitement gripped me. What if she’s not home? What if the door is opened by that same boy, David? What will I say to him? Or even worse, what if I find John there? After all, he might not be on a business trip, as he told me, but here, with his other family. This thought made me hot…
I imagined opening the door and seeing John sitting at the table with Sarah and David. A happy family idyll in which there is no place for me. How will I react? What will I say? But it was too late to retreat.
The taxi was already approaching the indicated address. A typical Boston high-rise in a residential area. I paid the driver and got out of the car.
For a moment, I was overcome by the desire to turn around and leave, forget about all this, return to my usual life. But I understood that there would be no former life. Too much had changed in the last 24 hours.
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage, and entered the entrance. Apartment 42 was on the seventh floor. I went up in the elevator, feeling my heart pounding every second.
Here is the right door. An ordinary, unremarkable door, behind which hid another life of my husband. I raised my hand and resolutely pressed the doorbell button.
Several long seconds passed. No movement, no sounds. I pressed again, more insistently.
And again silence. It seemed no one was home. I looked around, not knowing what to do next.
Wait? But how long? An hour or two, the whole day? And if no one shows up? I had no other address where I could find Sarah. And then the door of the neighboring apartment opened slightly, and an elderly woman with a curious look appeared in the opening. “Are you to the Millers?” she asked, eyeing me appraisingly.
“Yes, to Sarah,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound confident. “They’re not home,” the neighbor informed. “They went to the cottage for the whole weekend.
They’ll return only on Monday. Today was Saturday. So I would have to wait two days.
And who are you to them?” the neighbor continued to be curious. I was confused for a moment. Who was I to them? No one.
A stranger interfering in someone else’s life. But I couldn’t tell the truth, of course. I’m Sarah’s colleague, I improvised on the fly.
I need to give her important documents. “Do you know where their cottage is?” the neighbor squinted, obviously doubting the truth of my words. But then, apparently, she decided that there was nothing criminal in my question.
“Somewhere in Massachusetts rural area, I think, in the Springfield district,” she replied. “I can’t say more precisely,” she wasn’t interested. “But if you want, I can give you her mobile.
I have it in case of emergencies.” “That would be very helpful,” I replied gratefully. The neighbor disappeared into the apartment and returned a minute later with a piece of paper on which the phone number was written.
“Here, take it,” she said, handing me the piece. “I hope it’s nothing urgent.” “No, nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday,” I assured her.
“Thank you for your help.” The elderly woman nodded and closed the door, and I remained standing on the landing with a piece of paper in my hand. Now I had a way to contact Sarah directly.
But is it worth calling her? What will I say on the phone? Such news isn’t delivered remotely. I went downstairs and left the entrance. The day was warm and sunny, a typical summer day.
People around were hurrying about their business, cars were noisy, children were playing somewhere. Ordinary, everyday life, which contrasted so much with the chaos reigning in my soul. I found the nearest cafe and went in to have a snack and think about further actions.
Ordering a salad and tea, I took out my phone and looked at the written number. Call or not call? I could just say that I’m calling on work matters, introduce myself as a colleague, as I presented myself to the neighbor. And then, in the course of the conversation, find out where exactly the cottage is, and go there.
But wouldn’t it look strange and suspicious? While I was thinking, they brought my order. I mechanically chewed the salad, almost not feeling the taste, and continued to weigh all the pros and cons. The decision came unexpectedly.
I’ll call John. Right now. I’ll say that I know about his second family, and demand explanations.
After all, he was the main culprit of this whole situation, so why not start clarifying the relationship with him? I dialed my husband’s number, preparing for a difficult conversation. But after several beeps, voicemail turned on. John was unavailable.
Maybe he was at a meeting, or in the subway, or just didn’t want to answer calls. In any case, this path turned out to be a dead end. I returned to the original plan.
I needed to find a way to meet Sarah face to face. And if for this I have to go to the cottage in the Springfield district, then so be it. I opened the map on my phone and looked where the Springfield district is.
About an hour’s drive from Boston. Not so far. But the problem was that I didn’t know the exact address.
Springfield district. Not the most precise location for searches. I looked at the written phone number again.
Maybe I should call after all? What do I have to lose? Having made up my mind, I dialed the number. My heart was pounding so hard that it seemed its beating was heard by all the cafe visitors. After several beeps, a female voice was heard.
Hello? It was the same voice I heard on the video from the flash drive. The voice of the woman who was my husband’s wife, much longer than me. Hello, Sarah. I said, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.
Yes, it’s me, she replied. And who is this? I hesitated for a moment. How to introduce myself? Under what pretext to arrange a meeting? My name is Laura, I said, deciding not to give my real name.
I. I need to meet you. It’s about John. There was a pause on the other end of the line.
Then Sarah cautiously asked. John? You. A colleague? Not quite, I replied evasively.
It’s a personal matter. Very important. I would prefer to discuss it in a personal meeting, not over the phone.
Again a pause. I almost physically felt her distrust and alertness. I’m not sure I understand what it’s about, she finally said.
And I’m not in Boston right now. I know. You’re at the cottage, I said. Your neighbor said you’re in the Springfield district.
I could come there if you give me the exact address. You were at my house? There was clear anxiety in her voice. Who are you? What do you need? I understood that I was scaring her, but I saw no other way to achieve a meeting.
Please don’t be afraid, I tried to calm her down. I won’t harm you. I just need to talk to you about John.
About your husband. I said the last words with special emphasis, hoping they would make her think. And again silence.
This time longer. Finally she spoke, and her voice sounded tense. Where do you know John from? I took a deep breath.
The moment of truth. Tell her right now or still wait for a personal meeting? I’m his wife, I simply replied. We’ve been married for six years. On the other end of the line there was a strange sound, like a stifled cry.
Then the connection was interrupted. Sarah hung up. I sat staring at the phone screen, not knowing what to do next.
Call back? But what will I say? She’s obviously shocked, maybe doesn’t believe me. And is unlikely to want to continue the conversation. But I needed to meet her.
I had to find out the truth. The whole truth about John, about his double life, about his secrets. I dialed the number again, but this time Sarah’s phone was turned off or out of coverage.
Apparently, she decided to avoid further communication. Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad will go to the mountain. I decided to go to the Springfield district and look for her cottage.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I had no other options. Paying for the order, I left the cafe and headed to the subway. I needed to get to the train station from which trains departed in the Springfield direction.
On the train, I continued to think about the situation. What if Sarah really didn’t know about my existence? What if the news about her husband’s second wife was as much a shock to her as the news about her was to me? Maybe that’s why she hung up. From shock and disbelief.
But on the other hand, what if she knew? What if she was aware of John’s double life and actively participated in it? Maybe they together deceived me all these years? From these thoughts, a wave of anger rose inside. How could they? How could John do this to me? And to her? Didn’t he enjoy living in a lie, deceiving two women, playing a double game? The train stopped at the Springfield station, and I got off the platform. Now the most difficult part was ahead.
To find Sarah’s cottage in the whole district, full of cottage settlements. I approached the information stand at the station, hoping to find a map of the district or a list of cottage cooperatives. And indeed, there was such a map.
Cottage settlements were scattered around Springfield like mushrooms after rain. Dozens, if not hundreds of plots, divided into cooperatives with romantic names. Birch, Sunny, Forest.
How to find the right one? I had no idea. But I wasn’t going to give up. I took out my phone and dialed Sarah’s number again.
To my surprise, this time she answered. Almost immediately, as if waiting for my call. “I want to meet you,” she said without preamble.
In an hour at the “Forest Glade” cafe on the outskirts of Springfield. “Do you know where it is?” I replied that I’d find it with the navigator. Good, she continued in the same tense voice.
“And… Come alone. No witnesses, no police. This is a conversation between us.”
Of course, I assured her. I’ll come alone. The connection was interrupted, and I remained standing on the platform with the phone in my hand, not believing my luck.
Sarah herself suggested the meeting. She appointed the place and time herself. So she wanted to talk to me as much as I did to her.
I found the specified cafe in the navigator. It was about two kilometers from the station. I could walk or take a taxi.
I chose the second option to make sure not to be late for the meeting. The taxi arrived at the cafe exactly 45 minutes after the conversation with Sarah. I had 15 minutes left before the appointed time.
I paid the driver and got out of the car. The “Forest Glade” cafe was a small wooden building on the edge of the forest. Nearby was a parking lot with several cars…
The place was quiet and secluded, ideal for the conversation that awaited Sarah and me. I went inside and looked around. There were only a few visitors in the cafe.
An elderly couple by the window, a group of young people at a large table in the corner, and a lone woman at a table in the back of the hall. I recognized her immediately, although I had only seen her in photographs. Sarah.
She also noticed me and nodded slightly, inviting me to approach. I headed to her table, feeling my heart pounding. Here she is, the woman who was my husband’s wife much longer than I was. The woman who bore him a son.
The woman whose existence completely changed my life. Up close, she looked older than in the photographs. Dark hair with slight gray, tired eyes, wrinkles at the corners of her mouth.
But still beautiful, with some special, restrained elegance. “Hello,” I said, stopping at her table. “I’m Laura.”
We talked on the phone. She looked at me carefully, as if evaluating, then gestured to sit down. “You said you are John’s wife,” she said after a pause.
“Is that true?” I nodded and took out my passport with the marriage stamp from my bag. Handed it to her. “My real name is Emily,” I said. “Emily Anderson.
By husband. Here, look.” Sarah took the passport, carefully studied the page with my data, then turned to the page with the marriage registration stamp.
Her face remained impassive, but I noticed how the knuckles of her fingers gripping the document turned white. “Six years,” she said quietly. “You’ve been married six years?” “Yes,” I confirmed. “And you with John? How long?” “Sixteen,” she replied, returning the passport to me.
“We got married in 2009. Even before David’s birth.” “Sixteen years.”
That meant that at the time of our wedding, John had already been married to Sarah for ten years. Ten years he had another home, another family, another life. “So you didn’t know about me?” I asked, although the answer was obvious.
Sarah shook her head. “No, of course not. Do you think I would allow my husband to marry another woman? This is … some kind of madness!” There was bitterness in her voice, but no anger.
At least not towards me. “How did you find out?” she asked after a pause. I told her about the cactus, about the broken pot, about the found flash drive and box.
With each word, her face became more tense. “This cactus,” she said when I finished the story. “It was always with him.
As long as I remember. John never parted with it, even took it on business trips. I always wondered about this attachment to the plant, but attributed it to character quirks.
And what was on the flash drive?” she asked. “What did you find there?” I told her about the documents, about the photographs, about the videos. About how John addressed her in those videos, talking about potential danger, about the need to be careful.
At the mention of those videos, Sarah shuddered. “I never saw those recordings,” she said. “He never showed them to me.
And didn’t say he was recording something for me. That’s strange,” I agreed. “Why record video messages if not to show them to the addressee?” Sarah thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the table. “He was always secretive,” she finally said.
“Even with me. Especially in recent years. All these business trips, late returns, strange phone conversations.
I suspected he had someone, but thought it was just an affair. And it turns out. It turns out he had a whole second life.”
There was such bitterness in her voice that I felt genuinely sorry for this woman. It seemed she was as much a victim of John’s deception as I was. And what about his work? I asked. What, according to your information, does he do? He works in a logistics company, Sarah replied. East Trans.
Deals with international transportation. Constant business trips, meetings with partners. I got used to the fact that he is often not at home.
And what did he tell you? That he works in a construction company, I replied. Supplies materials, negotiates with contractors. We looked at each other, and at that moment a strange understanding arose between us. Two women deceived by the same man suddenly became allies.
“So he lied to both me and you,” Sarah said. “The only question is. Why? Why did he need two families, two lives? What’s the point?” I shook my head.
I don’t know. But it seems to me it’s not just that. Judging by those videos I saw, he was afraid of something.
He talked about some danger, about the need to be careful. Maybe he’s involved in something illegal. Sarah thought.
Possibly, she finally said. Lately he’s been especially nervous. Often checked if someone was following him, forbade me and David to post photos on social networks.
And once I saw him hiding some package in the garage, under the floorboard. When I asked what it was, he brushed it off, said it was just old documents that might come in handy someday. We both fell silent, immersed in our thoughts.
The situation was becoming more and more confusing. Who was John really? What did he do? And most importantly, where was he now? Where is John now? I asked. According to him. Sarah shrugged.
On a business trip in Philadelphia. Should return in two weeks. And he told me he was going to New York for a month, I noted. It turns out he could be anywhere.
Or with a third family that neither you nor I know about. Sarah shook her head. No, not that.
Two families. That’s already too complicated to manage. Three.
That’s beyond possible, even for a master of lies like John. I agreed with her. Indeed, leading a double life is difficult enough.
A triple one would seem completely incredible. There’s something else, I said after a pause. On the flash drive I found scans of several passports.
All in John’s name, but with different surnames. Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson. Sarah shuddered.
Miller. That’s my surname. John took it when we got married.
Before that he was Anderson, but in our marriage he’s also Anderson, I objected. We looked at each other, and I saw in her eyes the same understanding that came to me. Fake documents, she said quietly. He uses different names in different situations.
Like? Like a spy in movies or a criminal? I nodded. It explained a lot. And at the same time explained nothing.
Why does an ordinary person need fake documents? The further, the more entangled the situation became. We had been sitting in the cafe for more than an hour, and during this time we managed to order and drink a cup of tea each, but the conversation didn’t end.
I told Sarah about my life with John, she about hers. Two parallel stories, two versions of the same person.
Were there any oddities in your life with him? I asked. Something that aroused suspicion, made you think? Sarah thought. There were calls, she replied after a pause. Strange calls, after which he became nervous, irritable.
Sometimes in the middle of the night. He said it was because of the time difference, because of partners from other countries. But he always went to another room, spoke quietly, and when I asked what the conversation was about, he answered evasively or got irritated.
I had such cases too, I nodded. And what else? Packages. He sometimes received some packages without a return address. Never opened them in front of me, always took them to his office.
And when I asked what was there, he said it was work materials, technical documentation or samples. Sarah nodded. We had such packages too.
Once I accidentally opened one, thought it was books I ordered. And there were some papers in a foreign language and a small box sealed with tape. John got very angry then, yelled at me.
It was the only time he raised his voice at me. I remembered that in my life with John there was such an episode too. I mistakenly took his work bag instead of mine, and when I opened it, I found some documents in a language similar to Arabic.
John got very angry then, snatched the bag from me, and was gloomier than a cloud the whole evening. We came to the conclusion that our common husband was clearly involved in something he didn’t want to advertise. Something that could be connected with international contacts, possibly with some illegal operations.
But what exactly? We didn’t know. And what will we do now? I asked after a long silence. When he returns? How will we act? Sarah shrugged, I don’t know.
I’m not even sure I want to see him after everything I’ve learned. 16 years of marriage, and all this time he lived a double life. Lied to me, cheated, possibly put me and David in danger with his dark dealings.
How can I trust him after that? How can I remain his wife? I understood her feelings. I felt something similar myself. 6 years of my life turned out to be built on lies.
Everything I knew about my husband turned out to be fake, a decoration behind which hid a completely different reality. But you have a son, I noted. David. He needs a father.
Sarah smiled bitterly. A father who lies and cheats? Who is possibly a criminal? No, David doesn’t need such an example before his eyes. He needs an honest, decent person to look up to.
And John? John is not like that. I couldn’t disagree with her. After everything we learned, the image of John as an honest, decent family man.
Collapsed like a house of cards. In his place was a completely different person. Deceitful, two-faced, possibly dangerous.
And you? Sarah asked. What are you going to do? I shrugged. I don’t know.
But definitely not continue this farce. I can’t live anymore with a person whom, as it turned out, I don’t know at all. We exchanged phones, agreeing to keep each other informed of events.
Especially if John shows up at one of us. When I was already about to leave, Sarah suddenly grabbed my hand. Wait, she said.
There’s something else. You talked about the box you found in the cactus pot. What was inside besides the photograph? Only the photograph, I replied. And should there be something else?
Sarah frowned. In the video you watched, John said something about documents in the box. About bank accounts, real estate, insurance.
But you didn’t find anything like that? I shook my head. No, only the photograph. Maybe he meant the documents on the flash drive? Possibly, Sarah agreed, but looked unconvinced.
Or maybe the box has a false bottom? This thought hadn’t occurred to me. A false bottom? Like in spy movies. But considering everything we learned about John, it didn’t seem so incredible.
Do you have the box with you? Sarah asked. No, I replied. I left it at home, took only the flash drive. Sarah nodded.
Understood. When you get home, examine it carefully. Maybe there’s some hidden mechanism, a cache.
I promised I would do so. We said goodbye, hugging like old friends, although we had met only a couple of hours ago. It’s strange how common misfortune can bring people closer.
On the way back to Boston, I thought about our conversation with Sarah. She seemed sincere to me, as shocked and confused as I was. It seems she really didn’t know about my existence, just as I didn’t know about hers.
We were both victims of the same deception, puppets in the hands of a master manipulator whom we considered our husband. But who was John really? What was hiding behind all his masks? And most importantly, did he really have some dark past or present connected with illegal activities, as we suspected? I returned to Boston late in the evening. It was already about 10 when I stepped onto the platform of the central station.
Tired, emotionally drained, but with a firm intention to get to the bottom of the truth, I decided to spend the night in a hotel, and in the morning take the first train home. I needed to carefully examine the box again, study all the documents on the flash drive, maybe find some more clues. And then.
Then decide what to do next. How to build my life after everything I learned. I found a hotel not far from the station.
Small, cozy, with friendly staff. I checked in, went up to my room and collapsed on the bed exhausted. The day had been hard, full of emotional shocks.
But despite the fatigue, sleep didn’t come. Thoughts continued to revolve around John, his double life, his secrets. I decided to look through the contents of the flash drive again.
Maybe I’ll find something I missed the first time. Something that will help solve this puzzle. Opening the laptop, I inserted the flash drive and began to methodically view file after file.
I paid special attention to the videos where John addressed Sarah, talking about potential danger, about the need to be careful. In one of the videos, dated last year, John looked especially tense. He spoke quickly, nervously, often looking around, as if afraid someone might overhear.
Sarah, he began, “If you’re watching this video, it means something went wrong. It means I couldn’t return as promised. In the box there are all the necessary documents.
Certificates, accounts, everything you need so that you and David are safe. If something happens to me, contact Victor. He knows what to do.
And remember, I always loved only you and David. Everything I did, I did for you. The video ended, and I remained sitting, staring at the screen.
John talked about some box, about documents in it. But in the box I found in the cactus pot, there was only a photograph. No documents, no certificates, nothing that could ensure the safety of Sarah and David.
And who is this Victor? John didn’t mention the surname, didn’t give any contact details. How was Sarah supposed to find him? And what does this Victor know that could help in case of danger? Questions multiplied, and answers didn’t increase. I continued to view the files, hoping to find at least some clue, at least some explanation.
In the documents folder, I came across a strange file without an extension. It didn’t open with standard programs, and I was about to skip it when I noticed its name. Victor – exactly the same name that John mentioned in the video message to Sarah.
I tried to open the file with different programs, but unsuccessfully. It seemed to be encrypted or password protected. This only fueled my curiosity more…
What secret could be there? What important thing did John keep in this file? I remembered that the flash drive had scans of passports with different surnames. Maybe one of them belonged to this mysterious Victor? I opened the folder with passports again and carefully viewed each document. And indeed, on one of them was the name – Victor Smith.
But the photo was John’s. It turns out Victor. Is one of my husband’s alter egos.
One of his numerous personalities. My head was spinning from all these discoveries. Who really was the man I lived with for six years? An ordinary manager? A master of double life? A criminal with several passports? Or someone else I didn’t even guess about? It was well past midnight when I finally turned off the computer and went to bed.
Fatigue took its toll, and I almost immediately fell into a deep, restless sleep, full of strange visions and vague fears. I woke up to the sound of an incoming message on my phone. It was early morning, outside the window it was just beginning to dawn.
I took the phone and looked at the screen. The message was from Sarah. I have problems. Someone broke into the door at the cottage.
David and I are safe, but I’m afraid to return to Boston. What if they come there too? I immediately called her back, but the phone was out of coverage. Tried to send a message.
Not delivered. What was happening? Who could have broken into the door at the cottage? And most importantly. Is this related to our conversation about John? Not knowing what else to do, I decided to return to Springfield, find Sarah’s cottage, and make sure she and her son are okay.
Perhaps it was paranoia, but after everything I’d learned in the last two days, any oddity seemed a potential threat. Quickly getting ready, I checked out of the hotel and hurried to the station. Fortunately, the first train in the Springfield direction left in 20 minutes.
I bought a ticket and took a seat in a half-empty car. The road seemed endlessly long. I couldn’t find a place for myself from worry.
What if something really happened to Sarah? What if all those talks about danger weren’t empty words, but a real warning? Finally, the train arrived in Springfield. I immediately headed to the taxi stand, intending to go to the “Forest Glade” cafe where we met Sarah yesterday. From there I could start searching for her cottage.
The taxi driver, an elderly man with a friendly face, listened with interest to my request. “To the Forest Glade?” he asked. — It’s a bit far.
And why do you need there so early? The cafe is still closed. I’m looking for a friend, I explained. She’s at the cottage somewhere in this area, but I don’t know the exact address. We agreed to meet at the cafe, but she doesn’t answer calls.
The taxi driver nodded understandingly. And what’s your friend’s name? Maybe I know her. I’ve been taxiing in these parts for 20 years, I know all the local cottagers.
Sarah Miller, I replied, not particularly hoping for luck. With son David. To my surprise, the taxi driver’s face lit up. Ah, the Millers.
Of course I know them. Good people. Their cottage is in Sunny, right behind the Forest Glade.
Want me to take you. I couldn’t believe my luck. Is it really going to be that simple? Yes, please, take me to them, I agreed. The journey took about 20 minutes.
We drove past the closed “Forest Glade” cafe, turned onto a dirt road and soon found ourselves at the gates of a cottage settlement with a sign “Sunny”. “The Millers’ cottage is that green one with white shutters,” the taxi driver pointed, stopping the car at the curb. Only strange, their car isn’t there.
Maybe they left already? I paid the taxi driver and got out of the car. Indeed, there was no car visible on the plot. Maybe Sarah and David had already left? Or they didn’t come to the cottage this weekend at all, and the message was false? But why did Sarah write about the broken door? And why didn’t she answer my calls and messages? I approached the gate and carefully pushed it.
Unlocked. It seemed strange. If Sarah feared for her safety, shouldn’t she have locked all doors and gates? The plot was well-kept, with neat beds and flower beds.
The two-story house with a veranda looked cozy and well-maintained. I approached the front door and immediately noticed signs of break-in. The lock was broken out, the door held only on the upper hinge.
My heart pounded with anxiety. Something really happened. Someone really broke the door.
But where is Sarah? Where is David? I carefully pushed the door and entered inside. Sarah? I called. David? Is anyone home? In response. Silence.
The house seemed empty. I passed through the hallway into the living room. Complete disorder reigned here.
Furniture overturned, drawers pulled out, contents scattered on the floor. It seemed someone was looking for something and did it in a hurry, not caring about the safety of things. I went up to the second floor. The same picture.
Devastation, chaos, scattered things. In one of the rooms, apparently David’s bedroom, school textbooks, sports uniform, posters torn from the walls were lying around. In another, probably Sarah’s bedroom, the contents of the closet were gutted onto the bed, the drawers of the bedside table pulled out.
What happened here? Who arranged this pogrom? And most importantly, where were Sarah and David? I went back down and examined the kitchen. The disorder here was less, but still noticeable. On the table stood two cups with unfinished tea.
So they were here when the intrusion happened. Maybe they heard something, tried to hide? But where? And why didn’t Sarah answer my calls and messages? I went out to the back veranda. From here there was a view of the garden and a small forest behind it.
Maybe they ran there? Hid among the trees. Sarah. I shouted. David.
It’s me, Emily. Are you here? In response. Only the rustle of leaves and bird chirping.
It seemed there was no one on the plot. But where could they have gone? They had no car, the nearest settlement was several kilometers away. I returned to the house, feeling growing anxiety.
Something clearly happened, something bad. But what exactly, and how is it related to John and his secrets? Examining the living room, I noticed something shiny under the overturned armchair. Bending down, I picked up the object.
It was a mobile phone. The screen was broken, but the device still worked. I pressed the button and saw the screensaver.
A photo of Sarah with David. It was her phone, the same one from which she sent me the morning message. So she was here when she wrote to me.
And, apparently, soon after that, something happened. Something that made her drop the phone and run. Or.
Or she was forced to run. This thought sent a chill down my spine. What if Sarah and David didn’t just hide? What if they were kidnapped? What if all those talks about danger weren’t empty words, but a real warning? But who could have kidnapped them? And why? Is this related to John, to his secret affairs? Or to our meeting yesterday? Maybe someone was watching us, found out what we were discussing, and decided to take action? I didn’t know what to do. Call the police? But what will I say? That my husband’s wife, with whom he is in bigamy, disappeared with her son after our meeting, where we discussed his double life.
It sounded like the ravings of a madman. I decided to examine the house again, hoping to find some clue, some trace indicating what happened to Sarah and David. In the office, which, judging by the furnishings, belonged to John, there was the same disorder as in the other rooms.
The desk drawers were pulled out, papers scattered, books thrown from the shelves. I began to look through the scattered documents, hoping to find something useful. Most of the papers turned out to be ordinary household bills, receipts, old letters.
Nothing that could explain what happened. But in one of the books lying on the floor, I found an inserted sheet of paper. It was handwritten text, written in handwriting that I immediately recognized.
John’s handwriting. “Sarah, if you’re reading this, then my fears have come true. They found out about you and David.
Don’t try to contact me, don’t stay at home, it’s unsafe. Go to Cleveland, to my aunt Mary. You know the address.
It will be safe there, at least for a while. And don’t tell anyone about Laura. No one, do you hear? It’s a matter of life and death.”
I reread the note several times, trying to understand its meaning. John warned Sarah about danger. Said that some they found out about her and David.
Advised to go to Cleveland, to some aunt Mary. And asked not to tell anyone about Laura. Laura? Who is Laura? Another woman in John’s life.
Another secret. And who are these they that John wrote about? Who posed a threat to Sarah and David? And is this related to his double life, to his secret affairs? Questions multiplied, and answers still weren’t there. But one thing became clear.
Sarah most likely found this note and, following John’s instructions, went to Cleveland. Probably that’s why she didn’t answer my calls and messages. She was on the run, trying to hide from some unknown threat.
But what should I do? Go to Cleveland, look for this aunt Mary? Or return home, barricade myself in the apartment and wait for John’s return, demanding explanations? Or maybe still go to the police, tell everything I know, and let them figure it out? I didn’t have time to make a decision. Outside, the sound of an approaching car was heard. I looked out the window and saw a black SUV stopping at the gate.
Two men in dark suits got out of it, very similar to special services agents from movies. My heart sank. Who are these people? What do they need? Are they related to the disappearance of Sarah and David? And most importantly.
Do they pose a threat to me? I decided not to wait for a meeting with the strangers. Quickly hiding John’s note in my pocket, I slipped out through the back door and rushed to the forest. If these people were really dangerous, it was better to stay away from them.
I ran among the trees, trying to move silently and leave no traces. Behind me, voices were heard. The men discovered that the house was empty, and now, apparently, were inspecting the territory.
I needed to go as far as possible, as fast as possible. I don’t know how long I ran through the forest. Maybe an hour, maybe more. Finally, exhausted, I stopped at a small stream.
I listened. There seemed to be no pursuit. Either the men didn’t notice my escape, or they decided there was no point in pursuing a random guest.
I sat on a fallen tree and tried to collect my thoughts. What’s going on? Who are these people? Why did John warn Sarah about danger? And most importantly, what should I do now? First, I needed to get out of the forest and return to civilization. Then, then I’ll decide where to go.
To Cleveland, to look for Sarah. Home? To the police? I took out my phone to check if there was a signal, and froze. The screen showed a notification of a missed call.
From John. He called just 10 minutes ago, when I was in the forest, where the signal apparently dropped.With trembling fingers, I pressed the callback button. Beeps.
One, two, three. I thought he wouldn’t answer, when his voice sounded on the other end. So familiar and at the same time so strange.
Emily? Where are you? There was tension, anxiety in his voice. I didn’t know what to answer. Tell the truth? Lie? Pretend I know nothing about his double life? In the forest, I finally replied.
Not far from your wife Sarah’s cottage. The same one you forgot to mention in 6 years of our marriage. There was silence on the other end of the line.
Then John quietly said. You know. Not a question, but a statement.
He understood that his secret was revealed. Yes, John, I know, I confirmed. I know that you’re married to another woman for 16 years. I know that you have a teenage son.
I know that our whole life was a lie. Not all, he objected. Not all, Emily…
I really love you. That was never a lie. I smiled bitterly.
Love? And that’s why all these years you lied to me. Led a double life. Cheated with a woman who considered herself your only wife? If this is love, then I don’t want to know what hatred is for you.
John sighed. It’s more complicated than you think, Emily. Much more complicated.
But now is not the time for explanations. You’re in danger. Both of you are in danger.
Sarah and David have already hidden, you need to leave too. Immediately. His words sent a chill down my spine.
In danger? From whom? From the people who are looking for me, he replied. I can’t explain now. Just listen to me, for God’s sake.
Leave Springfield. Go home, collect the essentials and go to Cleveland. Pushkin Street, house 101.
Ask for Mary. Say it’s from me. She’ll help.
But. I started, but John interrupted me. No “buts”, Emily.
It’s a matter of life and death. Your life and death. Do as I say.
And… Be careful. They might be following you. And he hung up, leaving me in complete confusion.
What’s going on? Who are these people looking for him? Why does he think I’m in danger? And why should I believe him after everything I’ve learned? But on the other hand, his anxiety seemed sincere. And those two men at Sarah’s cottage did look suspicious. What if John was telling the truth, and I really was in danger.
I decided not to risk it. Getting out of the forest, I found a road leading to the nearest village. There I managed to catch a ride to Springfield, and from there I took the first train home.
The whole way I couldn’t stop thinking about the situation I found myself in. Who was John really? Why were some people hunting him? And how serious was the threat to me and to Sarah with David? Returning home, the first thing I did was check the apartment. Everything was as I left it.
The mess in the bedroom after the broken cactus pot, the turned-on computer on the table in the living room, the unwashed cup in the kitchen. No signs of intrusion, no indications that someone had been here in my absence. I went to the bookshelf where the box found in the cactus pot stood.
I took it in my hands and examined it carefully. An ordinary metal box, slightly rusty, with a small keyhole. Nothing special.
But Sarah suggested that the box might have a false bottom. What if she’s right? What if there are really some documents hidden there that John talked about in his video messages? I turned the box over and began to tap the bottom, looking for some irregularities, hidden mechanisms. And indeed, in one place the sound was duller, as if there was something under the metal plate.
I carefully examined the bottom part of the box and noticed a small, almost invisible button at the very edge. I pressed it, and part of the bottom slid aside, revealing a small secret compartment. Inside lay a folded in quarters sheet of paper.
I unfolded it and saw handwritten text. The handwriting was unfamiliar, not John’s. Coordinates.
54, 36. 39, 12. Key in the cavity of the third molar right top.
Documents encrypted. Key. Date of birth Mpv in order of letters.
Access code to the account. First five digits after the decimal point of Pi plus year of acquaintance. I reread the text several times, trying to understand its meaning.
Coordinates of some place. Key in a tooth. Encrypted documents.
All this sounded like a spy thriller, not like the real life of an ordinary supply manager. But John, as I now understood, was not an ordinary manager. He led a double life, had several passports with different surnames, warned of some danger.
Who was he really? A spy? A criminal? A person hiding from justice or from some dark personalities? I decided to check the coordinates. I opened the map on the computer and entered the numbers. 54, 36 north latitude, 39, 12 east longitude.
The map showed a place in Pennsylvania woods, away from populated areas. Some forest or field. What could be hidden there? And how is this related to John and his secrets? The rest of the note was even more mysterious.
Key in the cavity of the third molar right top. What does that mean? Whose molar is that? John’s? The note’s author? And what encrypted documents? Where are they? On the same flash drive I found in the cactus pot? And how to decrypt the key? Date of birth M plus V in order of letters. M. That’s probably John.
But who is V? And the last part. Access code to the account. First five digits after the decimal point of Pi plus year of acquaintance.
I remembered Pi from school. 3.14159. So, first five digits after the decimal point.
1,4,1,5,9. And year of acquaintance? If it’s about the year of my acquaintance with John, then it’s 2016. So, the code.
1,4,1,5,9,2,0,1,6. But what account was it about? John and I had a joint bank account, but I knew the access code to it, and it was completely different. Maybe there was some other account that I didn’t know about? Questions were becoming more, and answers still weren’t there.
But there was no time left for reflection. John said I was in danger, and although I wasn’t sure if I could trust him after everything I learned, his anxiety seemed sincere. Besides, those two men at the cottage looked really suspicious. I decided to follow John’s advice and go to Cleveland, to this mysterious aunt Mary.
Maybe there I’ll find Sarah and David. Maybe there I’ll learn the whole truth about John and his secrets. Or maybe there I’ll really be safe from those who might be hunting me.
Quickly packing the essentials in a small bag, I looked around the apartment once more. Six years of life in these walls. Six years that turned out to be built on lies.
It was painful to realize this, but even more painful was the uncertainty. What awaits me next? Will I ever see this home again? And will I see John? I closed the door and went down. It was quiet outside, nothing foreshadowed danger.
But after John’s words, I became suspicious. It seemed to me that an observer was hiding behind every corner, that every passing car was following me. Getting to the station, I bought a ticket for the nearest train to Cleveland.
Waiting for boarding, I nervously looked around, looking for suspicious individuals. But no one paid attention to me. Ordinary passengers hurrying about their business.
The train arrived on schedule, and I took my seat by the window. When the train started, I finally allowed myself to relax a little. Whatever awaited me in Cleveland, at least I was on the move, not sitting at home waiting for an unknown danger to find me.
Outside the window flashed familiar landscapes. The city, gradually replaced by suburbs, then fields, forests, small villages. An ordinary, peaceful landscape that contrasted so much with the chaos in my soul.
Thoughts returned to John, to his double life, to his secrets. Who was he really? Why did he lead such a strange, split life? And most importantly. Did he ever truly love me? Or was I just part of some complex game? Recalling our years together, I tried to find signs indicating his deception.
Were there moments when he let slip? When his mask slipped, showing his true face? Nothing specific came to mind. John had always been an attentive, caring husband. Yes, he had frequent business trips, strange calls, inexplicable absences.
But I attributed all that to the peculiarities of his work, to his stressful schedule. I never suspected that behind these small oddities hid a whole second life. How did he manage to lead a double life for so many years? How did he allocate time between two families? How did he remember who he told what, what stories he told? It required incredible organization, almost acting talent.
Or… or pathological ability to lie. The train arrived in Cleveland in two hours. I got off the platform and immediately headed to the taxi stand.
Gave the driver the address. Pushkin Street, house 101. The journey took about 20 minutes.
The car stopped at a small one-story house with a neat front garden. Nothing special. An ordinary house in a quiet area of a provincial city.
Who lived here? Really some aunt of John’s? And was she aware of his double life? I paid the driver, took my bag and approached the gate. For a moment, doubt seized me. What will I say to the hostess? How will I explain my appearance? But there was nowhere to retreat.
I opened the gate and walked along the path to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I pressed the doorbell button. Several long seconds passed before the door opened.
On the threshold stood an elderly woman about 70, with a kind, wrinkled face and attentive eyes. “Hello,” I said. — Are you Mary? The woman nodded, carefully examining me. — Yes, it’s me. And who are you? — My name is Emily, — I replied. — Emily Anderson.
I. I’m from John. At the mention of John’s name, the woman’s face changed. Anxiety and alertness flashed in her gaze.
— Come in, — she said quickly, stepping aside and letting me into the house. — No need to stand on the threshold. I entered inside, and Mary immediately locked the door with all the locks.
There were at least three of them, which seemed strange to me for a quiet provincial town. — Follow me, — she said, and led me through a small hallway into the living room. The room was cozy and clean, with furniture that seemed not to have changed since the Soviet times.
A sofa with a knitted cover, a sideboard with crystal dishes, a TV on a stand, bookshelves along the wall. Everything spoke of the measured, calm life of an elderly woman. Nothing hinted at any secrets or dangers.
But my attention was attracted not by the interior details, but by the people sitting on the sofa. Sarah and David. They were here, safe and sound.
— Emily! — Sarah exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa. — Thank God you’re here too. We were so worried.
She approached me and hugged me tightly, like an old friend. David, a thin teenager with a face in which John’s features were easily guessed, looked at me with curiosity and some alertness. — You know each other? — Mary asked in surprise, shifting her gaze from me to Sarah.
— Yes, — Sarah replied. — We met yesterday. Emily.
She’s John’s wife. The other one. Mary shook her head.
— Oh, John, John. What have you done? I sank into an armchair, feeling the tension of the last days beginning to let go. At least Sarah and David were safe.
And I, apparently, too. For now. Tell me what happened, — I asked, addressing Sarah.
— Who broke into the door at the cottage? Why did you run away? Sarah sat down next to me and began to tell. After our conversation in the cafe, I returned to the cottage and told David the truth. Not all, of course, omitted some details, but explained that his father leads a double life, that he has another wife…
David was in shock, he refused to believe. We talked for a long time, tried to understand what it all means. And then, already at night, I found that note in John’s office.
He warned of danger, advised to go here, to his aunt. I didn’t know whether to believe, but decided not to risk it. We were going to leave in the morning, but didn’t have time.
They arrived earlier. — Who are they? — I asked. — Two men in black suits, — Sarah replied. — They drove up to the house in a black SUV.
I saw them from the bedroom window and immediately understood that they weren’t with good intentions. David and I managed to slip out through the back door and hide in the neighbors’ shed. We saw how these people broke the door and entered the house.
They turned everything upside down there, looking for something. And then left. We waited until dark and walked to the nearest village. From there on rides we got to Cleveland.
I had Mary’s address, John mentioned her once. — They didn’t follow you? — I asked. Sarah shook her head. — I don’t think so.
We were very careful. I threw away my phone so we couldn’t be tracked. Bought a new one already here in Cleveland to send you a message.
— I don’t know if you got it? — Got it, I nodded. That’s why I came to the cottage. And apparently, I almost ran into the same people. I told about my visit to the cottage, how I hid in the forest from strangers in black suits, about John’s call and his warning.
— So it’s true, — Sarah said thoughtfully. — We really are in danger. — But why? What did John do? And who are these people? All eyes turned to Mary.
If anyone could shed light on John’s secrets, it was probably her. The elderly woman sighed and rose from the sofa. — I’ll brew tea, — she said.
The conversation will be long. While Mary was fussing in the kitchen, Sarah and I exchanged news. I told her about the found note in the box’s cache, about the strange coordinates and ciphers.
— What does it all mean? — Sarah wondered. Sounds like a spy novel, not real life. Maybe it is, — Mary’s voice sounded, who returned with a tray on which stood cups of tea and a plate of cookies.
— Maybe John is really connected to what you would call espionage. She put the tray on the table and sat in the armchair opposite us. — In fact, I’m not John’s aunt, — she began.
— I’m his curator. Or rather, I was, until he decided to leave the game. — Curator? — I asked again. — In what sense? — John works for the special services, Mary explained.
— Or rather, worked. He was an embedded agent in an international criminal group specializing in smuggling weapons and drugs. I couldn’t believe my ears.
— John? A special services agent? It sounded so absurd, so implausible, that I almost laughed. But Mary’s face was absolutely serious. — Is this some kind of joke? — Sarah asked, apparently experiencing the same feelings as I. — I’m afraid not, — Mary shook her head.
John was recruited 15 years ago, still a student. He was specially embedded in the organization. For this, he had to create a new personality, a new biography.
And then another one, when it was necessary to expand the circle of contacts. But why did he have to get married? — Sarah wondered. Why start a family if he worked under cover? This is part of the legend, — Mary explained.
— A family man inspires more trust. Besides, it gave him a certain stability, an anchor in the real world. Agents under deep cover often lose the sense of their own personality.
Family helped John not to forget who he really is. And the second family? — I asked. Why did he need me if he already had Sarah and David? Mary looked at me with sympathy. It wasn’t planned.
John met you during one of the operations. You were supposed to be just a source of information, but he fell in love. Really fell in love, for the first time in many years.
He shouldn’t have married you, it was a violation of all rules, but he couldn’t resist. Her words took my breath away. John really loved me.
Didn’t pretend, didn’t play a role, but actually felt feelings. If you’re his curator, then why did you allow it? — Sarah asked, and I heard bitterness in her voice. Why didn’t you stop him when he decided to start a second family? I tried, Mary sighed. I convinced him that it was too risky, that he was putting himself and both women and the child in danger.
But he was adamant. He said he would cope, that he would be able to protect everyone. And I must admit, he succeeded.
Until recently. What changed? — I asked. Mary hesitated, as if weighing how much she could tell us. Six months ago, John received information about a large shipment of weapons.
Not ordinary, but chemical, prohibited by international conventions. He passed the data to the leadership, and an operation to intercept was prepared. But something went wrong.
The criminals learned about the impending raid and managed to escape. They suspected that there was a mole in their ranks and began checking. John realized that the circle of suspects was narrowing, and his exposure.
Is just a matter of time. He decided to disappear, stage his death and start a new life. With both of you.
How is that? We exhaled simultaneously with Sarah. He had a plan, Mary continued. He prepared documents, money, new identities for you and the child.
He was going to talk to each of you first, explain the situation, and then organize your meeting. He hoped that you could, if not become friends, at least coexist peacefully for the sake of common safety. But he didn’t have time.
He was exposed earlier than he expected. What’s with him now? Sarah asked in a trembling voice. Mary spread her hands. I don’t know.
He contacted me three days ago, said he needed to lie low, that he would get in touch when it’s safe. There has been no news from him since then. A heavy silence fell in the room.
Each of us tried to comprehend what we heard. John. Not just a person leading a double life, but a special services agent under cover.
It explained a lot. His frequent absences, strange phone conversations, unwillingness to talk about his work. But accepting this truth was not easy.
And what should we do now? David asked, who had been silently listening to the conversation until then. Are we in danger? Mary nodded. I’m afraid yes.
If the criminals got on John’s trail, they can get to you too. To use as leverage or just out of revenge. So, now we have to hide for the rest of our lives? Sarah asked bitterly.
Not for the rest of our lives, Mary shook her head. John left you a way to salvation. Emily, you talked about some note with coordinates and ciphers.
I nodded and took out from my pocket the folded sheet of paper found in the box’s cache. Here, read it yourself. Mary took the note and carefully studied it.
That’s what I thought, she nodded. These are instructions on how to find a shelter and money that John prepared for you. The coordinates point to a place in Pennsylvania woods.
Probably there is some cache with documents or keys. The mention of the molar. That’s about John.
He really has a cavity in his tooth with a microchip. It contains the encryption key for access to the server with additional documents. And the access code to the account.
This is apparently for the bank account where the money for a new life is. But how will this help us? I asked. John disappeared, the encryption key is with him. How do we get access to these documents and the account? Mary thought.
Perhaps there is a copy of the key. John was foresightful, he probably made a backup copy. Maybe it’s in the cache at the specified coordinates? So we need to go there? Sarah clarified.
I’m afraid yes, Mary nodded. But it’s risky. You may be followed.
I remembered the strange men in black suits who searched Sarah’s cottage. Were they criminals tracking John? Or maybe special services agents, John’s colleagues, trying to find him or protect his family? And can’t you help? I asked Mary. If you’re his curator, you should have resources, connections.
The elderly woman shook her head. I’ve been retired for three years. Officially, I have no relation to John’s operation.
I can give advice, provide temporary shelter, but nothing more. Besides, the situation is complicated. John has been acting lately at his own risk, not always informing the leadership.
So I’m not even sure who can be trusted. So we’re alone, Sarah summed up. Only we ourselves can help ourselves.
Silence fell. Each of us plunged into our thoughts. The situation seemed hopeless.
We were threatened with danger, John disappeared, and the only thread to salvation was a mysterious cache somewhere in Pennsylvania woods. I think we should go to these coordinates, I finally said. What do we have to lose? If there really is something there that will help us start a new life, the risk is justified.
Sarah nodded. Agreed. But how will we get there? We have no car, and public transport won’t take us to a remote forest.
I have a car, Mary offered. Old, but running. I can lend it.
But it’s better for you to go at night, to attract less attention. We discussed the details of the trip. Decided to leave at midnight, when the roads would be empty.
Mary gave us a map of Pennsylvania, marking the place corresponding to the coordinates from the note. It was indeed a forest, aside from populated areas. How will we find the cache there? What if the coordinates are given with insufficient accuracy, and we’ll have to search hundreds of square meters of forest thicket? But there was no choice.
This was our only chance for salvation. We spent the rest of the day in Mary’s house, preparing for the night journey. The elderly woman gave us warm clothes, flashlights, food and water supplies.
We studied the map, trying to plot the safest route. And all this time I couldn’t stop thinking about John. Where is he now? Is he alive? And when will we see him again, if at all? At eleven in the evening we were ready to depart…
Mary led us through the back door to the garage, where stood an old Ford Focus. Full tank, she said, handing the keys to Sarah. Documents in the glove compartment. Good luck, and be careful.
The three of us. I, Sarah and David got into the car.
Driving out of the yard, Sarah turned off the headlights and moved only on parking lights until we got out of the city limits. Only on the highway she turned on the low beam, and the car rushed into the night. The first hour of the journey passed in silence.
Everyone was immersed in their thoughts. I looked out the window at the passing trees and thought about how amazingly life can change in a couple of days. Just Saturday morning I was an ordinary woman with ordinary problems and joys.
And now I’m driving at night on an empty highway with my husband’s wife and son, hiding from unknown pursuers and searching for a cache with documents for a new life. If someone told me such a story, I would consider it fiction, the plot of a cheap detective. But this was my reality, my life, unexpectedly turned into a thriller.
How did you meet John? David suddenly asked, breaking the silence. I turned to him. The teenager was sitting in the back seat, hugging his knees.
In the dim light of the dashboard, his face seemed older, more serious. “We met at a modern art exhibition,” I replied after a pause. I was there with a friend, and he.
He said he came for work, that his company sponsors events. We started talking at one of the installations. He was very attentive, interested in my opinion, joked.
At the end of the evening, he asked for my phone number. And a couple of days later he called and invited me on a date. And you didn’t guess that he already had a family.
There was no accusation in David’s voice, only sincere curiosity. No, of course not, I shook my head. He never gave cause for suspicion.
Was attentive, caring. Of course, there were moments that now looking back seem suspicious. Frequent business trips, strange calls.
But then I attributed everything to the peculiarities of his work. And now it turns out that his work. Is espionage, David said quietly. And mom and I didn’t know anything either.
We thought he was an ordinary logistician. He knew how to keep secrets, Sarah noted, not taking her eyes off the road. And build his life on lies.
There was bitterness in her voice, and I understood her. We both were deceived by the person we trusted, whom we loved. And although now we knew the reason for his lies.
A noble reason, as Mary would say. Accepting it was not easy. Do you still love him? Sarah suddenly asked, glancing at me quickly.
I thought. Did I love John? After everything I learned, after everything that happened. I don’t know, I answered honestly.
I’m not even sure I ever knew the real John. The person behind all his masks and roles. But I loved the John I knew.
And I think part of me still loves him. And you? Sarah was silent for a long time, concentrating on the road. I lived with him for 16 years, she finally said.
Gave birth to his son. Shared joys and sorrows with him. And all this time he lied to me.
Not in trifles, but in the most important things. And it’s not even that he had another family. I could forgive infidelity.
But he hid his whole life from me, his work, his goals. All of himself. How can I love a person I don’t know? Silence fell, interrupted only by the noise of the engine and the rustle of tires on the asphalt.
We drove through the night, three people connected by one man and his secrets. Three people whose lives turned upside down because of one broken cactus pot. Around three in the morning we turned off the main highway onto a dirt road.
The navigator in Sarah’s phone showed that there were about 20 kilometers left to the place indicated in the coordinates. The road was getting worse. Asphalt was replaced by dirt, the car began to shake on the bumps.
I began to worry that we might get stuck somewhere in the wilderness, without connection and the possibility of getting help. But Sarah drove confidently, as if she often drove on such roads. Maybe she did.
Maybe she, John and David often went out into nature, unlike me and John, who preferred urban recreation. Finally, the navigator reported that we had arrived at the destination. Sarah stopped the car and turned off the engine.
In the ensuing silence, the sounds of the night forest were especially clear. Rustle of leaves, hooting of an owl, some distant crack. We got out of the car and looked around.
Around was forest. Ordinary deciduous forest, nothing remarkable. No landmarks, no signs indicating a cache.
Only trees, bushes, grass, a forest road going into the distance. And what now? David asked, sweeping the surroundings with a flashlight. How will we find the cache? Good question.
The coordinates led us to this point, but what next? There must be some landmark, some clue. I took out the note and reread it again. Coordinates.
Key in the cavity of the third molar. Documents encrypted. Key.
Date of birth Mpv in order of letters. Access code to the account. First five digits after the decimal point of Pi plus year of acquaintance.
Nothing that could indicate the location of the cache. Unless. Key in the cavity of the third molar right top, I said thoughtfully.
What if it’s not only about John’s tooth? What if it’s a clue? Third molar. Third molar tooth. Right top.
I looked to the right, then up. Nothing special. Trees, sky with twinkling stars.
Perhaps it’s related to some specific tree. Sarah suggested, directing the flashlight beam at the nearest trunks. But how to understand which one? There are hundreds of them here.
We began to examine the trees growing to the right of the road. Nothing unusual. Ordinary oaks, birches, aspens.
No marks, notches, nothing that could indicate a cache. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place? David said. Maybe the clue means something else.
I reread the note again. Third molar right top. Third.
Right. Top. What if it’s a direction? It suddenly dawned on me.
Third. Third tree? To the right of the road? And top? Maybe the cache is high on the tree? We began to count the trees to the right of the road. First, second, third.
It turned out to be a mighty oak with a spreading crown. We directed the flashlight beams up, exploring the branches. And indeed, at a height of about three meters in the trunk there was a hollow.
Here it is. Sarah exclaimed. This must be the cache.
But how do we get there? The hollow was too high to reach from the ground, and the lower branches of the oak started even higher. I can try to climb, David suggested. I do rock climbing, I should manage.
Sarah looked worried, but after a short thought nodded. Okay, but be careful. And if you feel you can’t climb or descend, say immediately.
We’ll think of something. David took off his jacket to make it easier to climb, and began to climb the oak trunk. His hands and feet confidently found support in the irregularities of the bark.
Sarah and I shone flashlights, helping him see, and watched his progress with anxiety. Finally he reached the hollow. There’s something here.
He shouted from above. Some container. He pulled a small metal cylinder from the hollow, resembling a capsule, and began to descend.
A few minutes later he was standing next to us, extending his find. The container was hermetically sealed with a threaded lid. I tried to open it, but the lid didn’t yield.
It seems it’s glued with something, I noted, examining the junction of the lid and the body. Or soldered. So we need to open it, Sarah decided…
But not here. Let’s go back to the car. We sat in the cabin, turned on the lighting and began to carefully study the container.
On the smooth metal surface there were no inscriptions, no other marks. Only on the lid there was a small bulge, similar to a button. Maybe need to press? David suggested.
I carefully pressed the bulge. There was a light click, and the lid rose slightly. I unscrewed it and looked inside.
In the container were several items. A flash drive, a small sealed bag with something like a chip inside, three passports and a folded sheet of paper. I took out the passports and opened them.
They were foreign, issued in the names of Emily, Sarah and David Novak. The dates of birth corresponded to ours, but the surnames were changed. Each passport had the corresponding photograph.
Where John got mine, I didn’t know. These are our new documents, Sarah whispered, looking at the passport in her name. For a new life. I unfolded the sheet of paper.
It was a letter written in John’s hand. My dears! If you are reading this letter, it means you found each other and the cache. I hoped I could explain everything to you myself, but apparently the circumstances turned out differently.
I know you must hate me now. For the lies, for the double life, for all the secrets I kept from you. I don’t ask for forgiveness.
What I did is unforgivable. But I want you to know. I loved both of you.
Differently, in different periods of life, but sincerely and deeply. Sarah, you were my first true love, the mother of my son, my support in the most difficult times. You gave me a family when I needed it most.
Emily, you appeared in my life later, when I no longer believed I could experience such feelings. You brought light and warmth into my life, reminded me who I really am. I know I caused you pain, and I can’t do anything about it. But I can at least ensure your safety.
In the container you will find everything necessary to start a new life. Passports, a flash drive with instructions, a microchip with an encryption key for access to the server with additional documents. Access code to the bank account in a Swiss bank.
First five digits after the decimal point of pi 14159 plus year of my acquaintance with Sarah 2007. There is enough money there for you to start a new life in any country in the world. I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again.
If I manage to get out of this situation, I’ll find you. If not. Know that you were the best thing in my life.
Take care of each other. John. I finished reading and raised my eyes.
Sarah was crying silently, covering her face with her hands. David hugged her shoulders, barely holding back tears himself. I also felt a lump rising in my throat. John loved both of us.
Differently, but sincerely. And now, perhaps, he was in danger or even dead, trying to protect us. What do we do next? David asked when we calmed down a little.
I looked at the passports, at the flash drive, at John’s letter. Do what he suggests, I replied. Start a new life. Together.
Sarah raised her tear-stained eyes to me. Together? Are you really ready to live with us? After everything that happened? I didn’t know if I was ready for this. To live with the woman who was also my husband’s wife, with the child he never mentioned.
It was strange, unusual, beyond what I could imagine a week ago. But we had no choice. We were connected.
Connected by John, his secrets, his love, his care for our safety. And perhaps only together could we survive in this new, dangerous reality. Yes, I nodded. Together.
At least until we’re sure the danger has passed. Sarah wiped her tears and smiled weakly. Okay.
Together then together. After all, we’re now one family. Strange, unusual, but family.
We decided not to return to Cleveland, but to head straight to New York to the international airport. On the way, we stopped at a gas station with a 24-hour store, bought new clothes to change our appearance. Sarah cut her long hair, I dyed from brunette to blonde.
David put on glasses with thick frames, completely changing his face. At the airport, we used new passports to buy tickets for the nearest flight to Zurich. Switzerland seemed a logical choice, considering that the bank with our money was there.
Waiting for boarding, I thought about how amazingly life can change in a few days. Just Saturday I was an ordinary woman living an ordinary life. And now I’m sitting in the airport with my husband’s wife and son, with a new passport, new appearance, preparing to fly to another country to start a new life, all because of one broken cactus pot.
Because of one careless movement, one imprudent step. Who would have thought that such a trifle could completely change fate? Looking at Sarah and David sitting next to me in the waiting room, I understood that they were thinking about the same. About John, about his secrets, about his love, about his sacrifice for our safety.
And whether we’ll see him again someday. Our flight was announced for boarding. We stood up, collected our few things and headed to the gate.
Ahead was uncertainty, a new life in a foreign country, possibly constant fear of being discovered. But we were together. Three people connected by one man and his secrets.
Three people whose lives turned upside down because of one broken cactus pot. And perhaps this connection will help us survive in the new reality. And John? John will find us if he can.
I believed in that. I believed that the love he felt for us would help him overcome all obstacles. And maybe one day we’ll be together again.
Not as an ordinary family, of course. As something new, unusual, beyond the usual relationships. But together.
Passing through security control, I turned around for the last time, as if expecting to see John’s familiar figure hurrying after us. But I saw only a crowd of unfamiliar people hurrying about their business. It was time to let go of the past and move forward.
We boarded the plane, and a few minutes later it took off, carrying us to a new life. A life that began with a broken cactus pot. A life full of surprises, dangers, but also new opportunities.
A life that we will build together, day by day, step by step. And who knows, maybe one day in a new home on a new windowsill I’ll see a cactus in a clay pot again. And perhaps next to it will stand John, smiling his familiar slightly sad smile.
After all, anything is possible in life. I’ve already convinced myself of that. After these words, my mom was speechless.
She never thought that my ordinary story about a broken cactus would turn out to be the beginning of such an incredible story. A story about how one careless step can completely change fate, turn all ideas about life and people you seem to know like yourself upside down. Mom was silent for a long time, digesting what she heard.
And then she asked only one thing. Is it all true? Was John really an undercover agent? Did Sarah, David and I really start a new life in Switzerland? I smiled and said that some stories are better left unanswered. Let everyone decide for themselves whether to believe them or not.
But one thing I know for sure. You can never be sure that you know everything about a person. Even about the closest people.
Everyone has their own secrets, their own inner life, which others can only guess about. And sometimes one random event is enough. A broken cactus pot, an unexpected meeting, an overheard conversation.
For these secrets to come to the surface and forever change life. It’s been five years since then. Five years of new life, new discoveries, new relationships.
And every day I wake up thinking about how amazing and unpredictable life is. How one small event can launch a chain of changes that will affect not only you, but also the people around. And every day I’m grateful to fate for bringing me here.
For finding the strength not to break, to accept the truth no matter how bitter it was and move on. For gaining a new family. Strange, unusual, but loving and supportive.
And John? John sometimes appears in my dreams. He smiles his familiar smile and says everything will be fine. That he’s proud of us.
That he loves us all differently, but sincerely. And I believe him. I believe that wherever he is, whatever happened to him, this love remains unchanged.
As does our love for him. Maybe one day he’ll return. Or maybe we’ll find out what happened to him.
But for now we live. Day by day, step by step. Building our new life, creating new memories, new reality.
And on the windowsill in our living room stands a cactus in a clay pot. A reminder of how it all began. And that the most important changes in life sometimes begin with the most ordinary, insignificant events.
Who would have thought that a broken cactus pot could change everything.
