AFTER I HAD AN AFFAIR, MY HUSBAND NEVER TOUCHED ME AGAIN. FOR 18 YEARS, WE WERE LIKE STRANGERS, UNTIL A POST-RETIREMENT PHYSICAL EXAM WHEN WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID MADE ME BREAK DOWN ON THE SPOT…. PART2.
She looked at me intently. Susan, are you absolutely sure you have no memory of this? My mind was a chaotic blur. Surgery? What surgery? When could it be a mistake? I grasped at the last straw of hope. No. Dr. Evans shook her head. The imaging is too clear. It’s not a mistake. Susan, I suggest you go home and think very carefully or perhaps ask a family member.
I walked out of the hospital in a days, the doctor’s words echoing in my head. Surgery, scar tissue. Many years ago, suddenly a thought pierced through the fog. Back in 2008, after Ethan, I had a period of severe anxiety. I couldn’t sleep, and I was taking sleeping pills. I remembered waking up one morning with a dull ache in my lower abdomen.
I dismissed it as cramps. Could it be? The more I thought, the more uneasy I felt. I hailed a cab and rushed home. Michael was in the living room reading the paper. “You’re back,” he said without looking up. “Michael,” I stood in front of him. “I need to ask you something, and you haveto tell me the truth.
” He finally looked up, his brow creasing at my expression. “What is it?” “In 2008, did I have surgery?” The color drained from his face. He shot to his feet, the newspaper falling to the floor. My heart sank like a stone. So, it was true. I’d had an operation, and I didn’t even know it. What kind of surgery was it? My voice was shaking.
Why don’t I remember any of it? Michael turned his back to me, his shoulders trembling as if he were suppressing a great force. Do you really want to know? His voice was low. Tell me, I nearly screamed. He was silent for a long moment. Just as I was about to ask again, he spun around, his eyes red- rimmed and raw.
That year, after I found out about your affair, one night, you took too many sleeping pills. His voice shook. I rushed you to the hospital to have your stomach pumped. While they were examining you, the doctor discovered you were pregnant. My brain buzzed and the room tilted. Pregnant? I was pregnant. Whose Whose baby was it? I could barely form the question.
Michael gave a broken, bitter laugh. The doctor said you were three months along. His own tears finally fell. Susan, you do the math. We hadn’t touched each other in half a year by then. My legs gave out and I collapsed onto the sofa. 3 months. Hadn’t been intimate in 6 months. The baby was Ethan’s. I I was really pregnant. I still couldn’t believe it.
And the baby? What happened to the baby? Michael closed his eyes, tears tracking down his cheeks. I had the doctor perform an abortion. His voice sounded like it was being dragged up from hell. While you were unconscious, I signed the consent form. I had them take the child. My mind was a white void.
I had carried Ethan’s child and Michael had ended the pregnancy while I was passed out. How could you? I whispered. How could I? Michael suddenly roared. You have the nerve to ask me how I could. Susan, you were carrying another man’s child. What was I supposed to do? Let you give birth to it? Let the whole world know my wife cheated on me and was having another man’s baby? His words were knives stabbing me. But that was a life.
A life? Michael sneered. When you were cheating, did you ever think about the life of our family? When you were with him, did you ever think that Jake needed a whole and happy home? I had no response. He was right. It was all my fault. Then why didn’t you tell me? I sobbed. Why did you hide it from me? Tell you? Michael wiped his tears away.
Tell you what, to make you feel guilty? To make you suffer? Or to make you hate me even more? I wouldn’t hate you. You would? He cut me off. You’d hate me for taking away your right to be a mother. You’d hate me for making that choice while you were unconscious. So, I chose not to tell you.
I thought you would never find out. I thought this secret would be buried with time. But I know now, I screamed, crumbling. I know. Do you understand? I know. Michael looked at me, his expression a heartbreaking mix of pain and exhaustion. Yes, you know. His voice dropped to a whisper. So, what now? What do you want to do? Do you want to hate me? Or do you want to forgive me? He stepped closer, his voice rising with every word.
Or maybe you want to go find that man and tell him you once had his child. No, I Susan. Some things are in the past for a reason. Michael turned away. Just pretend you don’t know. We can keep on living like this. I can’t, I yelled. I can’t pretend I don’t know. Then what do you want? He whipped around. A divorce? Fine.
Let’s go right now and file the papers. I froze. A divorce? Was this really it? Just then, Michael’s phone rang. He answered it and his face instantly changed. What? Jake’s been in an accident. My heart seized. Okay, we’re on our way. He hung up and looked at me, his face ashen. Jake was in a car accident. He’s in surgery at the hospital. My mind went blank.
Nothing else mattered. I scrambled after Michael as he bolted out the door. On the way to the hospital, Michael gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “He’ll be okay,” I said, my voice trembling. “Jake will be okay.” Michael didn’t answer, just pressed harder on the gas. At the hospital, Sarah was standing outside the emergency room holding Noah, her eyes red and swollen from crying. Mom. Dad.
She sobbed when she saw us. Jake. He was hit by a car, saving a little kid who ran into the street. My knees buckled and I nearly fell. Michael caught me then walked over to the surgeon. Doctor, how is my son? The doctor pulled down his mask, his face grave. The patient is seriously injured. We’re doing everything we can. He paused.
But there’s something I have to tell you. He’s lost a lot of blood and needs an immediate transfusion. He has a rare blood type and our bank is low. Rare blood type? Michael stared. What type? Type B negative? The doctor said, “It’s very uncommon. Does anyone in the family have this type? A direct donation would be fastest.
” Michael and I looked at each other. “I’m Opositive,” Michael said. “I’m O positive, too.” I stammered. Then the patients blood type should be. The doctor flipped through the chart, then stopped. Wait a minute. Genetically, if both parents are type O, it’s impossible for their child to be type B. One. The air in the hallway turned to ice.
I looked at Michael. His face was a deathly white. Are you both certain you’re type O? The doctor asked, confused. Certain? Michael’s voice was barely a whisper. The doctor frowned, about to say something else when the operating room doors burst open. We need a family member, a nurse called out urgently. The patient is critical.
We have to get him blood now. I’ll contact the blood bank again. The surgeon said, turning to leave. Wait. Sarah suddenly spoke up. I’m B negative. Take mine. The doctor paused, then nodded. Okay. We’ll prep you immediately. Come with me. Sarah followed the doctor, leaving Noah with me.
I held my grandson, my entire body numb. Michael stood frozen in the hallway, his eyes locked on the doors to the O R. Michael, I went to his side. Don’t talk. His voice was colder than ice. Not until Jake is out of surgery. 2 hours later, the light above the O finally went out. The surgeon emerged, pulling off his mask.
The surgery was a success. He’s stable for now, he said, but he’ll need to be monitored in the ICU. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. Sarah, pale from donating blood, came out and weakly asked, “How’s Jake?” “He’s okay.” I hugged her. “Thank you, Sarah.” “Jake was moved to the ICU.
” We could only see him through the glass, lying pale and still, hooked up to a tangle of tubes and wires. “Jake,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. Michael stood beside me, silent as a statue. That night, Sarah took Noah home to rest. The hospital corridor was empty except for me and Michael. Susan, he finally spoke, his voice filled with a despair I had never heard before.
Tell me, is Jake my son? My heart stopped. What? What are you saying? The doctor said it. We’re both type O. Jake can’t be type B. He turned to face me, his eyes full of anguish. So, I’m asking you, is Jake my biological son? Of course he is, I said frantically. Of course, he’s your son. Then explain the blood type. I I don’t know.
My mind was racing. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe it’s a genetic mutation. Do you really believe that? Michael let out a cold laugh. Susan, when you cheated on me, Jake was already in college. So, if he’s not my son, that means you lied to me from the very beginning, from 30 years ago. No. I grabbed his arm. It’s not true, Michael.
You have to believe me. Believe you? He shook my hand off. How can I believe you? You didn’t even know you were pregnant with another man’s child. How am I supposed to believe you now? But Jake is your son. I sobbed. Look at him. He looks just like you. Like me? Michael’s own tears fell. Susan, do you know what my proudest accomplishment has been for the last 30 years? Having a son like Jake.
And now you’re telling me he might not even be mine. He is. He has to be. Just then, the door to the ICU opened. A doctor came out. The patient is awake. He’s asking for you. We rushed inside. Jake lay on the bed looking weakly at us. Dad. Mom. His voice was faint. Jake. I squeezed his hand. How are you feeling? Okay. He looked at Michael, his eyes pleading.
Dad, I have something to tell you. Michael moved to the bedside, his own eyes red. What is it, son? Jake took a shaky breath, then summoned all his strength to say one sentence. Dad, I’ve always known I’m not your real son. The doctor’s words had made my world collapse, but this this was the final crushing blow.
I stood in the hospital room, watching Jake’s pale face, hearing the words he had forced out. The world shattered and reformed into something I no longer recognized. Dad, I’ve always known I’m not your real son. After saying it, Jake closed his eyes, exhausted. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound, a furerial rhythm in the silent room.
Michael stumbled back, hitting the wall. His face was ghost white under the fluorescent lights, his lips moving but making no sound. I looked at the man I had lived with for 30 years. I was used to his coldness, to the wall he’d built between us. But now, seeing every line on his face etched with shock and utter despair, I finally understood the fragile heart that had been hiding behind that wall.
What? What do you mean? Michael finally managed to choke out his voice raspy and unrecognizable. A nurse sensing the tension said quietly, “The patient needs to rest. Perhaps you should step outside.” But I couldn’t move. I was frozen to the spot. Jake opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling tiles. His voice was as light as a feather.
My senior year of high school. I was cleaning out the study. I found your old medical files. My birth certificate. My blood type was listed as B negative, but the school health screening said I was B positive.My mind buzzed. I remembered that health screening. Jake had come home looking pale.
I asked him what was wrong and he just said he was coming down with a cold. That was 2006. He was 17. I secretly had a paternity test done. Jake whispered a single tear tracing a path down his temple. The results, the probability of paternity was less than 0.1%. Two, Dad, I’m not your son. Michael’s legs gave out and he crumpled into a nearby chair.
He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently. It was the first time in 18 years I had seen him truly break down, not with silent tears, but with repressed, gut-wrenching sobs. That sound was more painful to me than any accusation. Who? He lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot, pinning me with a stare.
Who was it? I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Who? I don’t know, I stammered. I really don’t know. Before Michael, I had a boyfriend in college, but we had broken up six months before the wedding. After we were married, I was always faithful until Ethan. But that was 20 years into the marriage.
There was no way Jake could be Ethan’s son, which left only one possibility. Michael, I began, each word a shard of glass in my throat. Before the wedding, I remember now. My bachelorette party. I drank too much. The memories are a blur. A face I had almost completely forgotten surfaced. Mark Peterson, Michael’s best friend, our best man.
The week before our wedding, he moved to Europe for a job. We never heard from him again. We’d barely even spoken. Michael shot to his feet, his eyes shifting from despair to a terrifying clarity, then to pure rage. Mark. He spat the name out like poison. It was him, wasn’t it? I couldn’t deny it.
The timeline fit, the blood type fit. Mark was B negative. I’d overheard it at a party once, long ago. You two, Michael’s voice trembled. Before my wedding, in my own home. I was drunk, I cried, collapsing. The night before the wedding rehearsal, I was so nervous. I drank too much. He brought me home. I don’t remember it.
I swear I thought it was just a bad dream. So, you married me carrying another man’s child? Michael laughed. A raw, horrifying sound. 28 years, Susan. You lied to me for 28 years. I raised my best friend’s son. I made him my pride and joy. Gave him everything. You’ve made me the biggest joke in the world. I didn’t know. I fell to my knees, grabbing his pants.
Michael, I swear I didn’t know. My period was always irregular. I just thought it was late. If I had known, I never would have. Never would have what? He looked down at me, his eyes as cold as a frozen lake. Never would have married me or never would have had him. I was silenced. What would I have done if I’d known back then? I had no idea.
In those days, being an unwed mother was a profound shame. And Michael, he was so good to me, so sincere. Get out. Michael turned his back on me. I don’t want to see you. Michael, get out. He roared, his voice cracking with a rage that had been suppressed for a lifetime. I staggered to my feet and stumbled out of the ICU.
The corridor was empty, bathed in the harsh, sterile light of the hospital. I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, burying my face in my knees. For 30 years, I believed my affair 18 years ago was the greatest sin of my life, a debt I would spend my remaining years repaying. But now I knew that was just an aftershock, a cruel, ironic echo.
The original sin had been committed before the story even began, before the wedding march played. And I, the sinner, had lived in blissful ignorance, stealing 28 years of Michael’s life. I don’t know how long I sat there before someone sat down next to me. It was Sarah. She gently put an arm around my shoulders. Mom. Jake told me everything. Her voice was soft.
He said that no matter what the blood test says, you will always be his only mother and dad will always be his only father. I looked up at her young, sad face. Sarah, don’t you hate me? Sarah shook her head. Hate won’t change anything. Jake needs you both. Noah needs his grandparents.
Mom, some things can’t be undone, but we can still choose how we face the future. Her words were a lifeline, but I couldn’t grasp them. Did I deserve it? Did I still have the right to be Jake’s mother? To be Noah’s grandmother? Two days later, Jake was moved to a regular room. Michael stayed by his side constantly. He spoke to no one unless absolutely necessary.
Especially not me. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. No, worse than a stranger. As if I were the person who had betrayed his entire world. I brought meals and clean clothes to the hospital everyday, but I only lingered outside the room, sometimes peering through the small glass window.
I would see Michael sitting by the bed, holding Jake’s hand, the two of them talking in low voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could see the tears on Jake’s face and Michael’s red rimmed eyes as he tried to remain composed. It was a beautiful,heartbreaking scene, a father and a son whose bond was deeper than blood.
and I was the one who had nearly destroyed it all. A week later, Jake was discharged. We didn’t go back to our house. We went to Jake and Sarah’s place in Chicago. They gave the master bedroom to Jake to recover while Michael and I were put in the guest room. We were under the same roof, but a thousand miles apart.
That night, I heard a noise on the balcony. I pushed open the sliding door to see Michael standing there, a cigarette glowing in his hand, looking out at the city lights. He had quit smoking over a decade ago. Michael, I said softly. He didn’t turn around, just took a long drag from the cigarette and slowly exhaled. Susan, I’ve been thinking.
His voice was unnervingly calm. I wanted to hate you. I wanted to kill you. I wanted to burn everything down and end it all. My heart clenched into a tight knot. But Jake said to me, he turned, the ember of the cigarette illuminating his face in the dark. Dad, for the last 28 years, the love you gave me was real.
and the love I gave you was real. That’s enough. The early winter wind blew and I hugged myself against the chill, waiting for my sentence. So, I’ve decided to let you go, Michael said, crushing the cigarette against the railing. And to let myself go, too. Can we? I choked out. Can we go back? Go back? He laughed, a sound hollowed out by exhaustion.
Every single day of our past was built on a lie. There’s no going back, Susan. Then what do we do? Michael was silent for a long time. In the distance, a train horn blew, a long and lonely sound. Jake needs time to heal. Noah is still young. He needs a complete family, he said slowly. So, we’ll keep acting just like we have for the past 18 years.
In public, we are a loving couple. We are Jake’s parents. We are Noah’s grandparents. And at home, I asked, my voice trembling. He looked at me, his eyes empty. At home, we are roommates, just roommates. This time, for real. He turned and went back inside, leaving me alone on the cold balcony. That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I remembered him saying those same words 18 years ago. I now realized that wasn’t the worst possible outcome. The worst outcome was this, where even hate was a luxury replaced by the tired mechanical motions of a partnership. But this time, I had no right to complain. I had no right to even feel sad. I deserved this. The days passed.
Jake recovered slowly and started working from home. Noah would run home from school, first into his grandpa’s arms, then to mine. The sound of his innocent laughter was the only truly warm thing in that house. Michael was polite and distant. He’d say thank you and excuse me. If I coughed, he would silently pass me a glass of water, but there was no more eye contact, no more unnecessary words.
We were two robots programmed to perfectly perform the roles of a happy couple and doing grandparents. Sometimes late at night, I would hear a muffled cough from his side of the room or a heavy sigh. I would lie in the darkness and picture him, the man who had been proud his entire life, now forced to swallow this immense humiliation and pain in private every single night.
And I didn’t even have the right to knock on his door and say I was sorry. Christmas came and we went back to our hometown. Friends and family gathered and the house was full of noise and laughter. Michael and Susan, you two are still so in love, my cousin said wistfully. 30 years and you look as happy as newlyweds.
Michael smiled and put his arm around my shoulder, a gesture so practiced it looked completely natural. “Yep,” he said. “She’s the one for me.” I leaned against him, smelling the faint, familiar scent of tobacco on his shirt. He’d started smoking again. His arm was strong and steady, but I knew that strength wasn’t there to hold me.
It was there to hold up a world that was about to shatter. At Christmas dinner, Jake stood up to give a toast. Mom, Dad, thank you for everything you’ve done for this family. He looked at us, his eyes glistening. I love you. Michael raised his glass and downed it in one go. I took a sip of my wine.
It burned my throat and I started to cough. Michael gently patted my back. The gesture was tender, but his eyes were looking somewhere far away. In that moment, I understood. Some punishments aren’t loud arguments or cold shoulders. They are a gentle distance. He was right beside me, but he was already a million miles away.
After the holidays, we returned to Chicago. Life continued on its seemingly peaceful path until one afternoon in March. Michael called me into the study. Susan, sit down. We need to talk. I sat, my heart pounding with anxiety. The sunlight streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on his face.
I’ve booked a flight to Oregon for next week, he said calmly. By myself? My stomach dropped. For For how long? I don’t know. A month, maybe longer. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. I need some time to bealone, to think. What about the family? Jake is fine now. Sarah is here for Noah. He paused. You take care of yourself. I knew this was his farewell.
Not a divorce, not a final break, but a long, slow escape. From the moment he learned the truth, he had been on the run. Michael, I found the courage to say, stopping him as he turned to leave. If if time could go back to the night before the wedding, I would. Don’t say if, he cut me off, his voice weary.
In the last 30 years, you’ve said if too many times. But time only moves forward. The mistakes we’ve made, the wounds we’ve caused, they’re carved into our bones now. All we can do is carry them and keep walking. He reached the door, then stopped, his back still to me. When I get back, we’ll talk about what comes next. The door closed softly.
I sat in the study, staring out at the bright spring day, tears falling silently. I didn’t know if he would ever come back or what kind of next he was talking about. But this time, I wasn’t praying for forgiveness. I wasn’t hoping to go back. 18 years ago, I thought the worst punishment was him no longer touching me, that we were strangers under one roof.
Now I finally understood that was only the prelude. The real punishment was the truth coming to light and the insurmountable wall it built between us. On either side of that wall stood two people, irrevocably changed by time and lies. And I will spend every day of the rest of my life paying off a debt that I incurred 30 years ago.
Whether he comes back or not, whatever our end may be, this is my story’s ending.
