My wife wouldn't let me visit our apartment. She said the building had stalled mid-construction. Nothing to see but an eyesore.
For three years, her face fell every time the subject came up.
We'd moved to the next city over for higher-paying jobs, renting a place while we threw every spare dollar at the mortgage. All so we could eventually move into the home we'd bought together.
Then last week, a business trip took me through my hometown. On a whim, I turned into the complex.
There was no stalled construction. What I found was an upscale gated community lined with mature trees and manicured hedges. The buildings gleamed. Laundry hung from balconies. Children chased each other across the courtyard.
I found our building and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
The door to Unit 1502 opened.
A man stood there in loungewear, looking every bit like he owned the place.
I'd seen him before. My wife had said he was a friend's brother. She'd posted photos of the two of them on social media.
...
I froze in the doorway. He froze too.
I glanced at the number on the door again. 1502. No mistake. The exact floor and unit we'd spent weeks choosing.
"Can I help you?" His voice carried an edge of suspicion.
I opened my mouth but had no idea what to say. This was my apartment. Who was I supposed to be looking for?
What came out was: "Are you the owner of this unit?"
He looked me up and down, his expression somewhere between confusion and contempt, then rolled his eyes and slammed the door in my face.
I stood in front of that 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, staring at nothing for a long time, before booking the next train home to our rental.
I pushed open the door. My wife, Grace Webber, was bustling around in the kitchen. She heard me come in and poked her head out. "You're back? You must be starving. Dinner's almost ready."
"How was work today?" She handed me my chopsticks. "Was the trip exhausting?"
I shook my head. "It was fine."
She sat down across from me and placed a piece of meat on my plate. "Eat more. You've been losing weight."
I shoveled rice into my mouth, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.
The luxury complex. The renovated apartment. The man in loungewear.
And the three-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage we were still paying off.
"By the way," I said, looking up, "I still want to go see the apartment."
Grace's hand paused mid-reach for a dish. Just for a second. Then she recovered. "Why are you bringing that up again all of a sudden?"
"I just think, we've been paying this mortgage for so long, we should at least lay eyes on the place."
"How many times do I have to tell you? It's nothing but a construction site right now. Rebar and concrete. What's there to see?" She sighed, her voice tinged with exasperation. "Once they start building again and it's safe to go in, I'll take you there myself. I promise."
I looked at her. Nothing on her face seemed off. She even gave me a little smile.
"Is the mortgage stressing you out again? If it is, I can pitch in more this month. Don't overthink things. If you're tired, just take a few days off."
I lowered my head and went back to eating.
She kept talking. Something about a project at her company, a possible year-end bonus. She told me not to pinch pennies so hard, to spend a little on myself.
I listened. Nodded along. But a cold feeling was spreading through my chest.
Three years.
For three years, this was who she'd been every single day. Warm. Thoughtful. Always putting me first.
But that complex. That door. That man.
And just now, the way her hand had stopped. Just for that one beat.
All at once, the woman 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 some information on Unit 1502."
