My husband wouldn't let me visit our apartment. He said the building was an unfinished construction site — nothing to see but an eyesore.
For three years, his face fell every time I brought it up.
We'd moved to a neighboring city where the salaries were higher, renting a place while we scraped together every penny to keep up with the mortgage payments.
Then last week, a business trip took me through our hometown. On a whim, I made a detour to the complex.
What stood before me was no abandoned construction site. It was a lush, tree-lined luxury community. The buildings gleamed, laundry hung from balconies, and children chased each other across manicured lawns.
I found our building and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
The door to Unit 1502 opened.
A woman in loungewear stood in the doorway, looking every bit like the lady of the house.
I'd seen her before.
My husband had told me she was a friend's sister. He'd posted photos of the two of them on social media.
...
I froze in the doorway. She froze too.
Instinctively, I glanced at the number on the door again. 1502. That was right. The exact floor and unit number we'd spent weeks deliberating over before we finally settled on it.
"Can I help you?" she asked, guarded.
I opened my mouth, but the words tangled in my throat. This was my apartment. Who was I supposed to be looking for?
What came out was: "Are you the owner of this unit?"
She looked me up and down, her expression a mix of confusion and irritation. Then she rolled her eyes and slammed the door in my face.
I stood there staring at the closed door, my head buzzing.
I don't really remember how I got back to the hotel.
All I remember is sitting on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at nothing, before booking the next train home to our rental.
I pushed open the door, and my husband, Hudson Dickerson, was busy in the kitchen. He heard me come in and poked his head out. "You're back? You must be starving — dinner's almost ready."
"How was work today?" He handed me a pair of chopsticks. "Was the trip exhausting?"
I shook my head. "It was fine."
He sat down across from me and placed a piece of meat in my bowl. "Eat more. You've been looking thin lately."
I kept my head down, shoveling rice into my mouth, but my mind was miles away — back at that scene from earlier in the day.
The luxury complex. The beautifully finished apartment. The woman in loungewear.
And the three-million-dollar mortgage we were still drowning in.
"By the way," I said, looking up, "I still want to go see the apartment."
Hudson's chopsticks paused mid-air for just a beat before he recovered. "What made you think of that all of a sudden?"
"I just feel like... we've been paying this mortgage for so long. I should at least see the place once."
"How many times do I have to tell you? It's nothing but a construction zone over there — rebar and concrete everywhere. There's nothing to see." He sighed, a note of weary patience in his voice. "Once they restart the work and it's safe to go in, I'll take you. You'll be the first."
I studied his face. Not a flicker of anything wrong. He even smiled at me.
"Is the mortgage stressing you out again? If it's too much, I'll cover more this month. Don't overthink it. If you're tired, take a few days off."
I lowered my head and went back to eating.
He kept talking — something about a project at his company, a possible year-end bonus. He told me not to pinch pennies so hard, to spend a little on myself for once.
I listened, murmuring agreement at the right moments, while something cold spread through my chest.
Three years.
For three years, this was what every day looked like. Gentle. Attentive. Always thinking of me.
But that complex. That door. That woman.
And the way his chopsticks had paused — just for that one beat.
Suddenly, the man who had slept beside me for three years felt like a stranger.
The next morning, I called in sick and drove back to the complex.
This time, I went straight to the property management office.
"Hi. I'd like to look up the information for Unit 1502."
