Everything was perfect. The morning started like any other, with the soft hum of the dishwasher in the background and the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. Our home was a sanctuary, a place where laughter and love intertwined seamlessly. I always thought our marriage was perfect, a fairy tale that had come to life.
It was laundry day, and I had gathered up all the clothes. Sorting them into piles. Noah's jacket was the last item. I reached into the pockets, a habit I had formed over the years to make sure nothing important got washed. My fingers brushed against something smooth and small, like a small pipe. I pulled it out, my heart stopping as I stared at the crimson lipstick in my hand.
I stood there, frozen, a flood of emotions washing over me. Confusion, fear, and an unexpected pang of betrayal. This was not my shade. In fact, I didn't wear lipstick often, preferring the natural look. My mind races with questions. Who did this belong to? Why was it in his pocket? My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing the dread that was starting to form.
I tried to recall the last few weeks, looking for signs I might have missed. His late nights at the office, the sudden business trips, and the way he seemed distracted sometimes—was I reading too much into it? I wanted to believe it was a mistake and that there was a perfectly logical explanation. But the doubt had already planted its seed.
Then came the second blow.
Today, I walked into my office, the cold air biting at my skin. I walked straight to my coat rack. I took my white coat off it and hung the scarf that Noah had given me on the coat rack, appreciating its warmth. It was a thoughtful move by him. I was on the move to turn when I suspected I saw something on the scarf. I looked closely at the scarf; a single hairline caught my eye, glinting, and the hair's fluorescent lights.
It was long and blonde, starkly different from my own dark hair. I stood there, my heart racing as I stared at it, moving closer to it. My mind races, connecting dots I wish didn't exist. Who did this belong to? Why was it on Noah's scarf?
I feel like I might go crazy soon. I remembered him draping the scarf around my shoulders this morning before coming to the office; his touch was gentle and loving. But now that memory was tainted.
Sitting at my desk, I tried to focus on work, but my thoughts were a chaotic mess. I replayed bombers in my head, searching for clues with waves of doubt and anxiety.
"Are you listening to me?"
I was so carried away in my own turmoil that I didn't notice the door quietly opening. It wasn't until I heard a soft voice that I was jolted from my reverie.
Startled, I looked up to see a patient standing there, a concerned expression on her face.
"I'm sorry," I said, quickly composing myself. "I didn't hear you come in. Please, have a seat."
She settled in the chair opposite my desk, but my heart was still racing, my thoughts struggling to shift from my personal turmoil to the task at hand. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the present moment. The patient needed my attention, and I couldn't let my suspicion about my husband affect my professional responsibilities.
"I really want to sleep." As she began to speak, I pushed my doubts aside, determined to give her the care and attention she deserved. But in the back of my mind, the question lingered, waiting for the moment when I would have to confront them again.
"How long has it been since you had trouble sleeping?" I asked, getting my face up. I took a deep breath as I began to speak, forcing myself to focus on the present moment.
"It's been about three months."
"It looks like young women these days take this drug as an anorectic agent." I picked up my pen to write her report.
"I'm not interested in losing weight. I just need some sleeping pills."
"Then you should go to the neuropsychiatric department." I rested my back a little on the back seat.
"Do you think I don't know that? I came here because I didn't want to leave a record there. I already checked that I can get the pills as prescribed by a family doctor."
"Yes, it is very possible. But I'm very careful when it comes to prescribing tranquilizers." I adjust my seat, putting my fingers in between each other as I place them on my desk. "Plus, it goes against my conscience as a doctor to prescribe it to someone who wants those pills and doesn't wish to leave a psychiatric record."
Telling her this, she got up and left my office. The moment the door clicked shut, I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my temples as I prepared for the next person on board.
But as I prepared for the next appointment, I couldn't help but feel the growing chasm between my professional demeanor and personal crisis that loomed ever larger in my mind.
"You must come, Dr. Emma."
"Thank you for the invitation. But I don't know if I'll be free," I said as I woke from my thoughts.
"You told me to overcome menopause by regaining self-esteem and advised me to find something to be passionate about. That's why I started painting. You must come to my exhibition."
I forced a smile, nodding as she spoke, but my mind was far from her words. In truth, I was already planning my evening, not for an art exhibition but for something far more distressing. I needed to find out what my husband was up to, where he was going, and who he was seeing. I had decided I would follow him to see with my own eyes what he was hiding from me.
"I noticed that you have a different hairstyle." I was trying to change the topic on the ground as my thoughts on hairline made me realize that she has changed her hair color.
She smiled, excitement shining in her eyes. "Being loved by a man is the best way to stay young."
Her words felt like a pointed jab at me, causing the beautiful smile on my face to fly away. People have always said that I looked older than my husband.
"I think I did the right thing by changing my hairstyle because I'm getting a lot of love these days," she said, placing each line of her hair to avoid tangling.
I stood up, placing my hands on my desk. "You've improved. I don't think you need to come anymore," I said, trying to ease the pain with the smile I was putting on.
"Okay," she got up, aiming to pick up her bag with her hand. "I'll see you at my exhibition."
As she left my office, the weight of her words, "Because I'm getting a lot of love these days," sank in. Pressing my lips against each other. I looked at my desk, cluttered with files and notes, but the real mess was in my mind. The hairline on the scarf had been an unwelcome discovery, and it had occupied my thoughts since I first saw it.
I turn slowly, my left feeling heavy as if burdened by the suspicions that plagued me. Walking over to the coat rack, I reached for the scarf. It's of fabric, once a comfort, now felt like a betrayal wrapped around my neck.
Feeling anxious with my trembling fingers, I picked at the single, blonde hair that clung to it. My own hair was black, and the sight of this alien strand had been like a slap in the face. I pulled it free, holding it up to the light. It glinted innocently, but to me, it was a silent accuser, whispering of infidelities and secrets.
I wanted to dismiss it, to tell myself it was nothing, but the lipstick I found weeks earlier was a reminder that there were too many coincidences piling up. I rounded it up as I dropped it into the trash, feeling no sense of relief, only a deepening sense of dread.
I left my office in a daze, the weight of the day's suspicions pressing heavily on my mind. I drove to my son's school, my thoughts tangled in a web of anxiety and uncertainty. The late afternoon sun cast a long shadow across the parking lot as I parked and made my way to the front entrance.
Standing there, I tried to shake off the thoughts of my husband and the nagging doubt that had followed me all day. I needed to be present for my son, to focus on him, and to leave my worries behind, at least for a little while.
Other parents were milling about, chatting with their children, and checking their phones. I managed a few polite nods to the children saying hi to me, but my mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the past weeks. The lipstick on his jacket and the hairline on the scarf discovery chipped away at the trust I once had in my marriage.
I scanned the crowd until I spotted my son, his backpack bouncing as he ran towards me. His face lit up with a smile that momentarily pushed all my worries aside.
"Mom!" he called out, his excitement infectious.
I hug him, feeling a rush of warmth as his small arms wrap around my neck. "Hey, sweetheart. How was school today?"
"It was great! Mom, I heard this year for camp instead of sleeping indoors, we'll be sleeping in tents. Can Dad really make it this time? It's all set, right?".
"Yes, of course. He told me he'll make sure he's free that day," I said, pressing the car key to unlock the doors. I smiled genuinely this time. "He'll be going this year no matter what. So don't worry."
"He said the same thing last year but suddenly canceled at the last minute. What if that happens again? Gosh, I can't trust him."
I was about to enter until I heard a cheerful voice call out my name, snapping me out of my reverie. "Ms. Emma," I turned my face toward the direction I heard it from.
She smiled warmly. "Have you been well?"
"Hello," her daughter said respectfully.
As she drew closer, my eyes were drawn to her hair. It was long and blonde, just like the stand I had found.
My heart skipped a beat, a mix of anxiety and curiosity bubbling up.
"Don't you recognize me? It's me, Elena. I used to be your husband's assistant director."
I try to remind myself that maybe I was thinking too much. "Oh, right. I remember. We met at the opening ceremony of his firm. Yes, I remember now. Didn't you have short hair back then?" I remember her having short hair, but having long now makes me feel suspicious of her.
"Oh, I got hairline extensions. You can't tell, can you?" she said jokingly.
"What brings you to this neighborhood?" I ask politely not to let her suspect my worries over her.
"I guess your husband didn't tell you. I've been working as his secretary for over a year."