The woman sharing my taxi couldn’t stop talking about her married boyfriend.
She said his wife had NO IDEA he was leaving.
Then she asked what my husband’s name was.
It was pouring and every cab in midtown was taken. When the driver asked if I’d share a ride uptown, I said fine. I just wanted to get home to my boys.
I’m Dana. Twelve years married, two kids, a house in Astoria.
The woman who got in was maybe thirty, nice coat, good mood. She apologized for being chatty. Then spent twenty minutes telling me about the man she was in love with.
She said his marriage was BASICALLY over, that they were only together because of the kids. She said he always promised NEXT MONTH they’d finally be together.
Something in my stomach tightened.
She kept going. His thoughtfulness. His success. The flowers he brought. The late-night calls.
Then she pulled out her phone.
“I know you’ll think I’m CRAZY,” she said. “But isn’t he handsome?”
She angled the screen toward me.
The taxi hit a pothole. Her phone slipped facedown to the floor. She grabbed it before I could see.
I exhaled.
A few minutes later we pulled onto my street. As I reached for my purse, she beamed at me.
“I’ve been talking about him this whole ride. What’s YOUR husband like?”
I kept my smile. “Twelve years. Two boys.”
Her eyes widened. “What’s his name?”
I hesitated. Then told her.
“Kevin.”
Her smile vanished.
SHE WENT COMPLETELY STILL. She stared at me like she forgot how to breathe.
I couldn’t breathe either.
Without a word, she pulled her phone back out and unlocked it. She looked at the photo. Then at me. Then back at the photo.
Her lips were shaking.
She whispered, “I don’t think either of us knows the WHOLE TRUTH.”
Then she turned the phone toward me.
The Picture Was Taken in My Kitchen
The photograph showed Kevin sitting at our kitchen table.
Not a look-alike. Not somebody with the same haircut or the same tired brown eyes. My Kevin.
He was wearing the blue shirt I bought him for his birthday two years ago. His left sleeve was rolled twice, exactly the way he did it when he cooked.
Behind him was the little whiteboard where I wrote the boys’ soccer schedule.
The photograph had been taken from the hallway.
I knew the angle because our kitchen light made a white square on the floor there.
My hand went to the door handle.
The woman watched my face.
“That’s him,” she said.
I looked at the phone again. Kevin was smiling at whoever held it. Not his regular smile, either. The one he used with waiters and strangers, polite and closed. This was the soft one. The one he gave me when the boys were little and one of them had fallen asleep on his chest.
“Where did you get that?”
“From him.”
“When?”
She swiped.
There were dozens of photographs. Kevin in a restaurant. Kevin in a hotel room, his hair wet. Kevin holding a paper cup outside what looked like Penn Station. Kevin standing in front of the mural near our subway stop.
Some were ordinary enough to be stolen from social media.
Some weren’t.
In one, he was lying on a bed with his arm behind his head. The sheet covered him to the waist. I recognized the gray wall behind him.
That was our bedroom.
I had painted it myself on a Sunday in April. There was still a small drip near the closet because Kevin kept bumping the ladder and I finally told him to leave it.
Beth, because that was her name, had been talking for twenty minutes. Now she couldn’t seem to find a sentence.
“His name is Kevin Doyle,” she said. “He told me his name was Kevin Doyle.”
“Yes.”
“He said he lived in Long Island City.”
“We live in Astoria.”
“He said his wife was named Dana.”
My mouth went dry.
The driver looked at us in the rearview mirror, then looked away fast.
Beth tapped the phone with one finger. “He said you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That he was leaving.”
I gave a short laugh. It came out ugly.
“Leaving me for you?”
She nodded, but there was less confidence in it now.
“That’s what he said.”
“And he told you his wife knew?”
“He said you weren’t surprised. He said you two had talked about it.”
I stared at the rain streaking the window. A bus passed beside us, close enough that the whole taxi filled with yellow light.
Kevin had never said he wanted to leave.
He had said the opposite. He’d said the mortgage was finally getting manageable. He’d said we should wait another year before replacing the kitchen cabinets. He’d said our youngest, Owen, needed braces and that we couldn’t keep pretending the insurance would cover everything.
He had said, “We’re okay, Dana.”
A lot.
Beth Had a Folder
The driver pulled over in front of my house.
I didn’t move.
Beth held the phone in her lap. Her coat sleeve was wet at the cuff, and there was a tiny silver button missing near her wrist.
“Do you want me to get out?” she asked.
I almost told her yes.
Instead I said, “Show me everything.”
She blinked.
“Everything.”
Her thumb moved across the screen. She opened a folder called K. Inside were screenshots, photographs, receipts, and voice messages.
She had saved dates.
March 4. First dinner.
March 19. He said he loved her.
April 2. He sent flowers to her office.
April 28. He promised he would tell me after the school year ended.
May 13. He said he had spoken to a lawyer.
June 7. He said I was making things difficult.
I stopped her.
“I wasn’t making anything difficult.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know that now.”
The car smelled like wet coats and the driver’s peppermint gum.
Beth opened a screenshot. It was a text from Kevin.
She knows about us. She just won’t admit it’s over.
Another one.
Dana’s scared of being alone. I can’t just throw her out.
Another.
The boys are attached to the house. I need to do this carefully.
I read that one twice.
My boys were nine and six. They were asleep at home, probably. My mother was watching them while I worked late. Kevin had told me he was at a conference in Jersey City.
I checked the time.
8:47 p.m.
He’d texted me at 8:13.
Still at the office. Don’t wait up. Love you.
Beth’s eyes flicked to my phone.
“He told me he was with you tonight.”
I showed her the message.
She covered her mouth.
For a moment neither of us said anything.
Then she whispered, “He told me he’d stopped saying that.”
“What?”
“The love-you thing.”
I turned toward her.
“He said he only said it because you were unstable.”
I laughed again. Too loud this time.
The driver flinched.
Beth looked down at her phone. “He said a lot of things.”
“Apparently.”
She opened another file. This one was a voice recording.
Kevin’s voice came through the tiny speaker.
“She doesn’t know yet. I told you, Beth. I need a little more time. You can’t keep pushing me. If you make me choose before I’m ready, you’re going to hurt the boys.”
I felt my fingers curl against my palm.
Kevin had used that voice on me before. Not the words. The low patient sound, the one he used when he wanted to make me feel like I was being unreasonable.
Beth shut it off.
“Where is he now?” she asked.
“He’s supposed to be at work.”
“Do you want to call him?”
I looked at her.
“No.”
She nodded, as if that was the correct answer in a test she hadn’t studied for.
I opened the taxi door. Rain blew inside and struck my cheek.
Beth got out after me.
The driver said, “Ladies, your bags.”
I had forgotten my purse on the seat.
Kevin Was Home Early
The front window was lit.
My mother’s blue sedan sat at the curb, and the front door was unlocked.
I stopped on the path.
Beth stood behind me, holding her coat closed at the throat.
“Your husband is here?”
“He said he was at work.”
A child’s laugh came from inside.
Then Kevin’s voice.
“Don’t put that there, buddy. Your mother will kill me.”
Owen laughed again.
My mother said something I couldn’t hear.
Kevin was home.
He had come in through the side door at some point, probably while I was in the taxi. He was in the house with my boys, acting normal, telling jokes.
Beth reached for my arm.
I moved away from her.
The hallway was warm. Somebody had left a bowl of popcorn on the stairs. One of Owen’s sneakers lay upside down beside the radiator.
Kevin came out of the living room carrying a folded blanket.
He saw me.
His face changed in a quick, ugly flicker. Surprise first. Then calculation.
It was gone before my mother stood up.
“Dana,” he said. “What are you doing home?”
I looked at the blanket.
“What are you doing home?”
He glanced at Beth.
The room went quiet.
My mother came to the doorway. She looked at me, then at the woman behind me, then at Kevin.
Kevin’s mouth opened.
Beth said, “Hi, Kevin.”
He didn’t answer.
Owen appeared behind him in dinosaur pajamas. “Dad, can I have more popcorn?”
Kevin stepped sideways, blocking the boy from view.
“Go sit with Grandma,” he said.
“But you said we could watch the – “
“Go.”
Owen’s face fell.
That was the first thing that made me want to hit him.
Not the photographs. Not the lies. The way he used that one hard word on our son because he was caught.
My mother took Owen by the shoulders and led both boys toward the kitchen.
Kevin kept staring at Beth.
“Who is this?” he asked.
She looked at me.
I said, “Your girlfriend.”
His face emptied.
Beth made a small sound. Not a sob. More like she’d bitten the inside of her mouth.
Kevin’s eyes came back to me.
“Dana, this isn’t – “
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
The house had gone so quiet that I could hear the refrigerator kicking on.
Beth took out her phone.
“I have three years of messages.”
Kevin looked at the phone, then at me.
“Three?”
She nodded.
“You told me she knew. You told me she was fine with it.”
Kevin rubbed his forehead.
“Beth, you don’t understand what you heard.”
“I heard you say her name.”
“You recorded me?”
“You sent it to me.”
He looked at me again.
I wanted him to deny everything. I wanted one clear lie, something solid enough to break against.
Instead he said, “Dana, I was going to tell you.”
Beth’s eyes filled.
“When?”
He didn’t answer.
“When?” she said again.
“I don’t know.”
Her laugh was quiet and wet.
“Next month?”
He turned toward her.
“Don’t do this here.”
She looked at the boys in the kitchen doorway. They had stopped pretending not to listen.
“Where should we do it, Kevin?”
He took one step forward.
I put my hand up.
“Stay there.”
There Was Another Woman
Kevin sat at the kitchen table.
It was the same chair from Beth’s photograph.
Beth stood by the counter. My mother kept the boys in the living room, but I could hear Owen whispering to his brother. Every few seconds, my mother answered in the careful voice she used when someone was sick.
I stood across from Kevin.
“How long?”
He looked at the table.
“Dana.”
“How long?”
“Beth and I have been talking for a while.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He rubbed his wedding ring with his thumb.
“About three years.”
Beth turned toward me.
“He told me two.”
I looked at Kevin.
He shut his eyes.
Three years.
Owen had been six. Ben had been three. Three years ago Kevin had sat beside me in the pediatric emergency room after Ben swallowed a plastic wheel from a toy truck. Kevin held the little plastic bag the nurse gave us and made jokes about how our son was trying to eat a car.
Three years.
I had been there.
I had been right there.
“What happened three years ago?” I asked.
He said nothing.
“Was it the conference in Philadelphia?”
His head lifted.
I knew it.
That was the first time he came home with a hotel key in his pocket and no explanation for why it was there.
Beth’s voice was small. “He told me he met you after that.”
Kevin looked at her.
“Who?”
She swiped through her phone and held up a photograph.
A woman sat across from Kevin in a restaurant. She was blond, older than Beth, with red lipstick and a black sweater. Kevin’s hand was on the table beside hers.
“This is Marlene,” Beth said. “He said she was a friend from work.”
Kevin stood so fast the chair hit the wall.
“Give me the phone.”
Beth stepped back.
I stared at the photograph.
I knew Marlene.
She was the woman who had sent Kevin cupcakes to the office. The woman whose name appeared on his phone at 11:32 p.m. one Thursday in October. He had said she was a client.
“How many?” I asked.
Kevin looked at me.
“Dana.”
“How many women?”
He pushed both hands through his hair.
“This isn’t what you think.”
Beth said, “He told me Marlene was his cousin.”
“She’s not,” I said.
Kevin said nothing.
My mother called from the living room, “Dana?”
I didn’t answer.
The boys were still awake. They were hearing all of it.
I picked up my phone and called Kevin’s sister, Carol.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Dana? What’s wrong?”
“Do you know a woman named Marlene?”
There was a pause.
“No.”
“Has Kevin ever talked to you about Beth?”
Another pause. Longer.
“Dana, what is this?”
I looked at Kevin.
He had gone white.
“Did Kevin ever ask you to pretend to be his wife on the phone?”
Carol said nothing.
I heard a chair scrape on her end.
Then she said, “What?”
Kevin grabbed the edge of the table.
“Hang up,” he told me.
I kept the phone to my ear.
Carol’s voice broke. “Dana, he said you knew. He said it was some arrangement. I thought you were separated.”
I looked at Beth.
She was crying now, but she hadn’t wiped her face. One tear sat on her chin.
Kevin whispered, “Carol.”
“Who is Beth?” Carol asked.
No one answered.
He Had Practiced This
Kevin began to talk.
Not confess. Talk.
He said he had been lonely. He said our marriage had changed after the children. He said I was always tired, always angry, always asking where he was. He said he never meant for anyone to get hurt.
Beth interrupted him.
“You told me your wife was cruel.”
He turned to her.
“I said we were having problems.”
“You said she threw a plate at you.”
I looked at him.
He said, “That happened once.”
“It did not.”
“You broke a mug.”
“I dropped a mug.”
“You were upset.”
“I was pregnant.”
Beth’s face changed when she heard that. Not pity. Something else. Disgust, maybe.
Kevin leaned toward me.
“Dana, I was going to leave.”
“With who?”
He didn’t answer.
“For Beth? Marlene? The next woman?”
He stood again.
This time he knocked the chair over.
The sound sent Owen running into the kitchen.
“Dad?”
Kevin turned sharply.
The boy stopped.
My mother came behind him, her hand on his shoulder.
I said, “Go upstairs with Grandma.”
“But – “
“Now, Owen.”
He looked at Kevin, waiting for him to fix the room.
Kevin couldn’t.
The boy went upstairs.
I heard his feet on the steps. One, two, three. Then the floor creaked above us.
Beth picked up her purse.
“I need to go.”
I nodded.
She moved toward the door, then stopped beside me.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“I swear, I didn’t know about the others.”
“I know.”
She looked at Kevin.
“For what it’s worth, I wasn’t going to stay hidden forever.”
He didn’t look at her.
She opened the door.
Cold rain blew across the entryway.
Before she left, she said, “He has a second phone.”
Kevin’s head snapped up.
Beth walked into the rain.
I closed the door.
Then I went upstairs.
Kevin said my name behind me.
I kept walking.
In our bedroom, the closet door was open. His work shoes were missing. The dresser drawer where he kept his socks was pulled halfway out.
I went to the nightstand.
His regular phone was charging beside the lamp.
I picked it up.
The passcode was our anniversary.
It opened.
There were no messages from Beth. No messages from Marlene. Nothing but the clean, empty phone he carried around the house.
I looked beneath the bed.
A black phone sat beside a dust bunny and one of Ben’s toy soldiers.
The screen lit when I touched it.
Three new messages.
The first was from a number saved as R.
Did she meet Beth?
The second came right after.
Kevin, answer me.
The third had a photograph attached.
I opened it.
It was a picture of my front door.
Taken from across the street.
Underneath it, one line:
She knows now.
I stood there with the second phone in my hand.
Downstairs, Kevin called up to me.
“Dana, please.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I locked the bedroom door and put the phone in my pocket.
If this hit you, pass it along to someone who knows what a lie looks like before it gets called love.
For more surprising tales, read about the diner regular who left three coins beside his soup or the mother-in-law who offered three million dollars to leave her son. You might also be interested in the daughter who sent one photograph from London, then called with news.
