The Widow They Lied To

The day of my husband's funeral, I swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills.

It was his best friend, Lucas, who kicked down my door, eyes red, and dragged me back from the edge.

"If you won't live for yourself, then live for Ethan!"

For the next five years, the man who used to fight me on everything put away every one of his sharp edges.

He wouldn't even let me take out the trash alone.

I thought I'd finally made it through. I thought I'd fallen in love with him.

In our second year together, I was holding a positive pregnancy test, ready to surprise him.

That same day, at the very back of his desk drawer, I found a printed marriage certificate.

Issued in Sydney, Australia. Dated five years ago.

The groom was my husband. The one who "died in an accident."

The bride was my best friend. The one who swore she'd never get married.

The date was the day I swallowed those pills.

Next to the certificate was a phone I'd never seen before. On the screen was a text from Sophie, sent yesterday:

"Thank you for keeping her in line all these years. She never suspected a thing. Ethan and I are so happy."

I gripped the pregnancy test, cold all the way through.

The man who pulled me back from death had never been saving me.

He'd been covering for them.

For five whole years.

The test slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

I stared at the two names on that certificate for a long, long time.

I had to be reading it wrong. I had to be.

But when I went through what lay underneath, I realized the real joke was me.

Prenatal checkups, children's hospital bills, receipts for formula and diapers, a letter from a life insurance company, and a few photos.

In one, Ethan was holding a little girl.

Sophie sat on the couch, head bowed, smiling softly.

He wasn't dead.

And I had spent five years keeping vigil over his photograph like a fool.

I put everything back in the drawer, one piece at a time.

In the bathroom, I picked up the pregnancy test and dropped it in the trash.

My doctor had told me that after years on medication, my chances of getting pregnant were slim. I'd taken three tests. All three came back positive.

Ten minutes ago, I'd thought it was a miracle.

Now it was just a punchline.

A key turned in the front door.

"Ella?"

Lucas was bent over, slipping off his shoes, a paper bag in one hand.

The moment he saw my face, he reached out to feel my forehead.

I flinched back.

His hand froze in midair. Something flickered in his eyes.

"What's wrong? Not feeling well?"

"I'm fine."

He studied me for two seconds, then pulled a pair of slippers from the shoe cabinet and set them at my feet.

"Barefoot again."

Once, it was little things like this that melted me.

During the worst years, he was the one who made sure I took my meds. The one who woke me from my nightmares in the middle of the night.

I called that being saved.

Now I just stood there, cold to the bone.

"Got you cinnamon rolls. From the place on the corner."

He set the bag on the dining table.

"You said you were craving them the other day, so I swung by after work."

He was always like this.

Anything I said in passing, he'd remember for weeks.

One look at me, and he knew whether I was okay.

I used to think that meant he cared.

So I clung to the warmth he gave me and never saw the cracks everywhere.

He went into the kitchen to warm up some milk, then took out my pill organizer.

"Did you take your meds today?"

"No."

"Take them now, okay?"

He held out the pills, and like always, his thumb brushed lightly across the back of my hand. Gentle. Patient.

I stared at the little white pills in my palm, a chill crawling down my spine.

For five years, he'd known exactly when I'd spiral, when my appointments were, when I'd fall apart—

Better than I did.

He had his hands on every weak spot I had.

For the first time, I wasn't sure what he was really handing me.

I looked up at him.

"Lucas."

"Hm?"

"If I ever found out Ethan wasn't really dead... would you think I was pathetic?"

He went still for a beat. His voice dropped.

"Were you in my study today?"

I didn't answer.

He set down the glass and walked into the study.

A moment later, I heard a drawer slide open.

It was several minutes before he came back out, his face perfectly composed.

"Those are old files. Don't go through my things."

"You haven't been doing well lately. You're overthinking. I'll take you to see Dr. Green tomorrow."

I almost laughed.

Even now, he was still lying to me.

"I'm not going."

He stared at me. "Why not?"

"What's the point? I'm never getting better."

"Ella!" For the first time, there was an edge in his voice.

"I said I'm not going."

The silence stretched on.

Finally, he nodded.

"Fine. Let's eat."

Halfway through dinner, his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, got up, and stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

I'd never thought twice about it before. Now that door felt like a splinter lodged in my chest.

He came back a few minutes later.

"I have to head out tomorrow night."

"Where?"

"A friend's place. Their kid's sick. I'm going to go check on them."

My fingers tightened around my fork.

He said it so casually, like he was telling me it might rain tomorrow.

But I knew exactly whose kid it was. Ethan and Sophie's.

I looked up at him, my voice barely a whisper.

"Lucas... do you think Ethan might not really be dead?"