Wife Brings Her First Love Home For A Private Meeting

The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the cemetery as the wind whispered through the trees. The funeral procession had been solemn, filled with polite murmurs and stiff embraces. My mother-in-law's death left a palpable heaviness in the air, but the weight on my chest had nothing to do with grief. As I stood at the edge of the crowd, the vibration of my phone pulled my attention. The neighborhood group chat was blowing up, my name tagged over and over.

With trembling fingers, I clicked on the message, a sinking feeling already blooming in my gut. The video loaded slowly and then there it was—Jessica, my wife of ten years, pressed against the cold concrete wall of an underground parking lot, her lips locked with her first love, Michael. Her face, usually so composed, was flushed with passion. My breath hitched.

I could hardly process the mocking comments from neighbors, wondering aloud how I could "let this happen." Let this happen? She had done this and I'd been the fool.

My grip tightened around the phone as rage boiled inside me, threatening to explode. But I couldn't, not here, not now. The mourners were still here. I swallowed down the anger, forcing myself to keep up appearances and handle the final funeral arrangements. My hands moved automatically, signing papers and offering polite condolences, but inside, I was unraveling.

Later, when I finally found a moment of solitude, I called my grandfather. My voice was steady, but each word carried the weight of betrayal.

"Grandpa," I said, my voice cold, "pull the investment out of Jessica's project. I'm coming home to inherit the family business."

——

There was a brief pause on the line before my grandfather replied, his voice calm but firm, as if he had been expecting this moment. "Understood."

The day after the funeral, Jessica came home. She waltzed through the door like nothing had happened, draped in an oversized suit jacket that wasn't hers and hickeys that were unmistakable dotted her neck. The sight of her made my blood run cold. How had I been so blind?

She met my eyes briefly and for a split second, I saw a flicker of guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a look of annoyance. Jessica always hated being questioned and now was no different.

"Those videos are fake," she snapped, her voice dripping with impatience. "Michael and I are just friends. Don't get the wrong idea."

I stared at her, my face an impassive mask, though my chest burned with a mix of fury and disgust. "Uh-huh, I know," I replied mechanically, my attention shifting back to the messages of condolence still pouring in on my phone. I felt numb, detached from everything, even as the anger simmered just beneath the surface.

Jessica seemed to take my nonchalance as acceptance. Her frown deepened and she added, "I've been really busy lately, too busy to answer your calls. Let's talk about this later, okay?"

"Uh-huh, I know," I said while mechanically replied to the messages of condolences, feeling numb.

Too busy? I thought bitterly. Before the funeral, I had seen the real reason she hadn't answered my calls. Michael had posted a picture on social media—a handwritten note from Jessica, apologizing for not answering his call immediately. His picture's quote said: [Haha, we used to do this in high school. Your punishment is two hours of no kissing.]

Her neat handwriting taunting me from the screen. She had time to play childish games with Michael but couldn't pick up the phone when her husband or mother needed her.

As my expression darkened, Jessica's eyes flickered with unease. She took a step forward, as if to see what I was looking at, but just as she did, her phone buzzed incessantly from her purse. She glanced at it and smiled, the kind of smile she used to reserve for me. Without a word, she retreated into the bedroom, her voice sweet and tender as she answered the call.

I sat there, seething in the silence. As her voice drifted out of the room, I caught the sound of her words—soft, syrupy, filled with affection.

"Baby, it's been ten minutes since we were apart. Do you miss me?" Michael's voice crackled through the earbud she had dropped on the floor.

Jessica's response was like a knife twisting in my chest. "I miss you so much! I wish I hadn't come back. Just looking at his face annoys me. I really wish it were you here with me now."

Each word landed like a blow, her honeyed tone reserved for the man she had betrayed me with. Michael chuckled, telling her to bear with it, promising they'd be together soon enough. The two of them laughed at my expense, their casual cruelty turning my stomach.

Without any outward reaction, I bent down and picked up the earbud, placing it back on the table. My heart pounded in my chest, the pain of betrayal tightening like a vice around my lungs, but I refused to let it show. Not yet.

A knock on the door startled me, but before I could move, Jessica was already there, her face lighting up with that same sweet smile as she greeted the courier. She accepted the delivery, barely sparing me a glance as she handed me a small box on her way back to the bedroom.

"Here, your favorite mango crepe cake," she said nonchalantly, as if everything between us was still fine.

I stared at the box in disbelief. My lips curled into a bitter smile. She had no idea, after all these years.

"We've been together for ten years. Don't you know I'm allergic to mangoes?"

Jessica froze in place, her face flushing with embarrassment. Her eyes darted to mine, searching for a way out. "What do you mean? How was I supposed to know you're so picky for a grown man?"

I narrowed my eyes at her, cutting her off. "Not as easygoing as Michael, right?"

Her breath caught and she stumbled over her words, guilt and panic flashing across her face. She opened her mouth to explain, but I was done listening to her lies. I stood up, my body tense with the effort it took to walk away.

Three years of dating, ten years of marriage. And she couldn't remember a basic detail about me. She didn't answer my calls but wrote a 10,000-word apology letter to Michael for missing one of his. The realization hit me hard, a cold, bitter truth sinking into my bones: I had wasted all these years loving someone who never really knew me.

I walked toward the guest room, shutting the door behind me. As I sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of it all pressed down on me, suffocating. The pain was unbearable, gnawing at my heart, but what hurt most was the emptiness—the void left by the love I had given so freely, only to realize it had meant nothing to her.