The last page wasn’t about me at all. It was a copy of their marriage certificate—dated three years after he’d told me they were “only together for the children.” Tucked behind it was a birth certificate for a little boy I’d never heard of, born while he’d been telling me he couldn’t leave because he was “completely alone.” His wife hadn’t come to accuse me. She’d come because she’d finally learned she’d been lied to too.
We met that Saturday in a quiet café with the envelope between us. Neither of us cried. We just took turns placing photographs, bank statements, hotel receipts, and messages on the table until the whole story was finally there. Every promise he’d made to one of us had been paid for with a lie he’d told the other.
Then she slid one final photograph across the table. It showed him standing beside a woman neither of us recognized, wearing another wedding ring, taken just six months earlier. On the back she’d written only five words: “There’s one more wife to find.”
