Seven Years, One Lie: My Fiancé's Secret Family

The first birthday I spent with Nathan Sanchez was in an old brownstone row-house block.

I was carrying a heavy chamber pot out to the public toilet at the mouth of the alley to empty it.

My father, the professor, had put a notice in the paper cutting all ties between us.

Nathan folded that paper into a hat, sang "I'm a house-painter man" deliberately off-key, and painted over the moldy walls as he went.

By our second birthday together, we'd moved into a one-bedroom with its own bathroom.

Nathan had just had surgery on a polyp on his vocal cords, and the doctor ordered him to stay silent for two weeks after.

Instead, to make rent, he livestreamed for twenty hours straight.

Then came our seventh birthday together.

I'd booked out the whole movie theater well in advance, planning to marry myself off to him on his birthday.

That day I was working at the airport, on duty escorting unaccompanied minors.

I found myself staring blankly at the little girl's name tag:

【Beatrice Sanchez】

What a coincidence. There really were people in the world with the exact same name.

Back then, if the child Nathan and I had made had been born, she would have been called that too.

The little girl chirped into her phone watch:

"Daddy! Beatrice is on a plane to come celebrate your birthday!"

A weary voice came from the other end:

"My clever girl."

"But no flying alone from now on, okay? It isn't safe."

My breath stopped for a few seconds. That voice in the phone watch left me a little dazed.

For no reason I thought of Nathan.

He'd said the same thing to me last night:

"My clever girl. One more time, okay?"

...

I sat alone in the theater.

I kept checking my phone, kept turning to look behind me.

Until the closing song began, and a silent image flashed up on the big screen:

【Nathan Sanchez, let's get married!】

The words were like a black-and-white silent film.

In the silence, I heard my heart give two slow beats.

The stall door beside the restroom answered my heartbeat, two clicks, click-click.

Sobbing came from inside:

"Mommy..."

I rushed to teach her:

"Sweetie, don't be scared. Turn the lock to the left."

Click.

Behind the door was a soft little round face.

"Auntie?" Beatrice recognized me.

What a coincidence.

"Where's your mommy?" I took her hand to go find her guardian.

"Mommy went to call Daddy. My daddy... is busy at work."

"Don't worry. Auntie will help you find her."

The crowd surged through the theater.

"What are you doing snatching my child!"

The woman's shriek had barely reached my ear when a security guard seized my arm.

A biting pain shot through me.

The world spun, my arms were wrenched behind my back, and I was slammed down hard against the floor.

The woman ground the point of her high heel into my face.

"Human traffickers these days are so brazen! One second I turn away, and she nearly makes off with my child!"

Beatrice was frozen stiff by the scene.

Her mouth crumpled, and all she could do was wail.

Those two words, "human trafficker," set the watching crowd alight.

They pulled out their phones, aimed them at my twisted face...

"I didn't! Your child got locked in by the bathroom door! I only helped her open it out of kindness!"

"Check the security footage!"

The woman rolled her eyes at me.

"You knew exactly there's no camera in the bathroom!"

The mood turned frenzied.

To all those parents with children, I was a monster.

How was this any different from helping up an old person and getting accused for it?

I broke free of the grip and reached for my phone on the floor.

The woman's heel came down on it, and the screen cracked into a spiderweb.

"You still have the nerve to call the police?"

Beatrice dialed for reinforcements.

She didn't speak, only whimpered.

A familiar voice came from the watch:

"Don't be scared, baby. Daddy's coming!"

The security guards locked me in the farthest stall of the men's room.

The stall was falling apart from years of neglect.

A broken toilet, a rotting mop head, dirty water dripping from the ceiling.

"Where is she?"

"Locked up in there. Should we call the police?"

"Don't worry, leave it to me. Go comfort Beatrice, she's terrified."

Clack.

The stall door opened.

Something roared in my head.

Slowly, I looked up.

Nathan Sanchez was standing in the stall doorway.