Two months. That’s how long I had been away, tending to my mother after her surgery. Two long, exhausting months of hospital cafeteria food, uncomfortable chair naps, and constant worry. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of finally returning to my own apartment, my own bed, and, of course, my husband, Michael.
I had barely been home for an hour, fresh out of the shower, when I heard the front door unlock. My first thought? Michael had stepped out and forgotten something. My second thought? Why hadn’t I heard his car pull up?
I peeked into the hallway, towel wrapped around my head, still in my bathrobe. That’s when I saw her.
A young, pretty woman stood there as if she owned the place, her manicured fingers clutching a set of keys. She froze, her expression a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.
“Who are YOU?” she blurted out.
I blinked. “Excuse me? Who am I? I live here! Who are YOU?”
She frowned. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Well, I was away for a couple of months. Who gave you a key to MY apartment?”
“Michael,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “He told me I could come anytime.”
Michael. My husband.
A cold sensation spread through my chest, quickly replaced by the slow burn of rage.
“Oh, did he?” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Because I—his WIFE—am back, and that is definitely news to me.”
Her face flickered with something unreadable. Then, as if realizing she had made a terrible mistake, she took a small step back. “Wait… He told me he was single.”
I folded my arms. “Oh, did he now?”
She frowned harder. “Well. I guess I should go.”
I wasn’t about to let this go without answers. “No, wait,” I said. “Come with me.”
To her credit, she hesitated but eventually followed me. I led her to the kitchen, where Michael was sitting at the counter, peacefully eating a bowl of cereal, blissfully unaware of the domestic disaster about to unfold.
She glanced at him, then turned back to me and asked, “Who’s THAT?”
Michael looked up mid-chew, cereal spoon hanging in the air. “Uh… what’s happening?”
I turned back to the woman. “That’s Michael. My husband.”
Her eyebrows shot up so high I thought they’d fly off her face. “That’s not Michael.”
Now it was my turn to be confused. “What?”
Michael, still looking utterly lost, put down his spoon. “I feel like I should be involved in this conversation, but I have no idea what’s going on.”
The woman pulled out her phone and started swiping furiously through her dating app. After a few seconds, she held up a picture.
It wasn’t Michael.
It was Nick.
Michael’s younger brother. The one who constantly got himself into trouble. The one who borrowed money he never paid back. The one who, apparently, had been using my husband’s name—and our apartment—to impress his dates.
Michael groaned. “Oh, for—now it all makes sense! Nick has been weirdly interested in my schedule these past few months. He’d randomly text asking if I was home or if I had a work trip. I thought he was just being, you know, nosy.”
I turned back to the woman, who was now staring at Nick’s profile like it was an ancient relic she had just unearthed. “Let me guess—he never let you come over when I was home?”
She shook her head, still stunned. “Yeah. Said his ‘roommate’ was always around.”
“Unbelievable,” I muttered.
Michael ran a hand through his hair. “I swear, I’m going to kill him.”
The woman—who, by now, I felt deserved to have a name—let out a deep breath. “I cannot believe I fell for this. I knew something was off about him, but I ignored the red flags.” She sighed and stuck out her hand. “I’m Sonya, by the way.”
I shook it. “Nice to meet you. You know, aside from the fact that you broke into my apartment.”
“Technically, I was invited,” she said with a weak laugh. Then she straightened. “You know what? I want revenge.”