I Walked Into My Husband’s Hospital Room And Saw A Woman Holding His Hand. He Said She Was His Sister, But He Is An Only Child. What Should I Do?

He looked older than his 62 years.

“I hope it was worth it,” I said.

“I hope having everything was worth losing all of it.” I told him.

I closed the door behind me. Jennifer’s apartment was small, a one-bedroom in Uptown that she’d bought three years ago.

She’d set up the couch for me with blankets and pillows.

“Mom,” she said when I arrived.

“Are you okay?” Jennifer asked.

“No,” I said.

“But I will be.” I said.

She held me while I cried. I did not cry for Richard, but for myself.

I cried for the woman I’d been, who had believed in the sanctity of marriage and in the truth of the life she was living. I cried for the woman who believed in the man who kissed her every morning and called her every night.

That woman was gone. In her place was someone I didn’t quite recognize yet.

She was someone harder, perhaps, but also clearer. The divorce took four months.

Richard didn’t contest it. He moved to Duluth.

I heard through Jennifer that Diane had kicked him out. I heard that she was divorcing him, too.

Marcus and Sophie wanted nothing to do with him. Richard had tried to have everything and had ended up with nothing.

I found I couldn’t feel sorry for him. I sold the house on Elmwood Avenue.

There were too many memories and too many lies embedded in every room. I bought a condominium downtown.

It was smaller and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mississippi River. I took up painting.

It was something I’d always wanted to do but had never had time for. I joined a book club at the local library.

I volunteered at a women’s shelter. I helped other women who were rebuilding their lives after betrayal.

Jennifer came to visit every week. We grew closer than we’d ever been.

Sometimes we talked about Richard. We talked about the red flags I’d missed or explained away.

We talked about the ways we convince ourselves that everything is fine when it isn’t. One year after I left Richard, I was sitting on my balcony watching the sunset over the river when my phone rang.

It was a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello, Mrs. Patterson. This is Sophie.” the voice said.

Sophie Patterson. My hands tightened on the phone.

This was Richard’s daughter. She was the one who had known him as a full-time father while I’d known him as a part-time husband.

“Hello, Sophie.” I said.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I—I wanted to apologize.” Sophie said.

“I know that’s not enough. I know nothing can make up for what he did, but I’m so sorry. We all are.” Sophie said.

“Marcus and I—we didn’t know about you and Jennifer until everything fell apart. We thought our family was real. We thought we were the only ones.” Sophie said.

Her voice broke on the last word.

“Sophie,” I said gently.

“Your family was real. What your father did doesn’t change that.” I told her.

“You and Marcus are not responsible for his choices. But Jennifer—Jennifer is your sister. She is not because of him, but in spite of him.” I explained.

“If you want to know her, that’s between the two of you. But she has a good heart. Give her time.” I said.

Sophie was crying now.

“Thank you. I—thank you for not hating us.” Sophie said.

“I don’t hate you,” I said.

“I hate what was done to all of us. But you were children. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I told her.

After we hung up, I sat for a long time watching the light fade over the water. I thought about Richard living alone now in some apartment, having lost both his families.

I thought about Diane rebuilding her life just as I was rebuilding mine. I thought about all the children caught in the wreckage of their father’s deception.

And I thought about myself. I was 64 years old.

I had been married for 35 years to a man who had lived a double life with such skill that I had never suspected. I had been the perfect wife and the devoted partner.

I was the woman who had shaped her entire existence around supporting his career and raising his child. And now I was none of those things.

Now I was simply Margaret. I was not Mrs. Patterson, not Richard’s wife, and not the woman who had been fooled.

I was just Margaret sitting on a balcony watching the river. I was planning what to paint tomorrow.