A pregnant woman appeared in the doorway, looking around. Susan was taller than Megan, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a tired expression. Her belly was larger, consistent with her due date. The two women recognized each other instantly, sharing a look of despair that was impossible to mistake.
“Are you Megan?” Susan approached the table hesitantly, as if still hoping it was all a mistake. Her voice was hoarse; she had clearly been crying. Megan nodded and gestured to the empty chair.
They sat across from each other, two pregnant women connected by the most absurd and painful bond imaginable. Susan ordered a coffee, though she knew she wasn’t supposed to have caffeine. Right now, that seemed like the least of her worries.
“Show me a picture of your husband,” Megan said, taking out her phone.
They both opened their photo galleries and turned their screens toward each other. The photos showed the same man: Michael Bell, 32, a construction project manager. Susan stared at a picture of Mike with Megan in their apartment—the very apartment where Megan had believed she was the lady of the house for the past four years. On Susan’s screen was the same Mike, but in a different home, with different furniture, in a different life.
“And this is our marriage certificate.” Susan pulled a document from her purse. The date of registration was June 15, 2018.
Megan showed hers—September 3, 2020. It meant Mike had married her while he was already married to Susan.
Susan told her story of life with Mike, and Megan listened in horror as she recognized the familiar patterns.
“He works two weeks on, two weeks off. He leaves on a Monday morning and comes back on a Friday evening two weeks later. The schedule never changes.”
“It’s the same for us, just the opposite weeks,” Megan whispered. “He’s home with me when he’s on a ‘business trip’ with you. It’s a perfect system. We never would have suspected a thing.”
Susan showed pictures of their house in the Northwood subdivision. Megan had never seen the furniture, the wallpaper, the decor. But in the photos, Mike looked completely at home: cooking in the kitchen, watching TV on the sofa, sleeping in the bed.
“Here’s our wedding.” Susan scrolled through an album on her phone.
The people in the photos were strangers to Megan. But at the center of every shot was her husband, wearing the same suit he’d worn to marry her two years later. Even the tie was the same. A wave of nausea, unrelated to her pregnancy, washed over Megan. Who were these people?
Susan explained: Mike’s parents, his sister and her husband, his cousins. A large, happy family that had welcomed her as a daughter.
“But he told me his parents died in a car crash,” Megan could barely get the words out. “And that he was an only child. How is this possible?”
Susan showed another photo: a family dinner for her mother-in-law’s birthday. Mike sat at the head of the table next to an older woman he called “Mom.” The photo was dated last year—right around the time Mike had supposedly been in the hospital with appendicitis.
The women began comparing their calendars, mapping out Mike’s presence in their lives. Susan pulled out a planner where she meticulously tracked his departures and arrivals. Megan opened the calendar on her phone, which had similar notes. The system was flawless. Not a single overlap. Not one mistake.
“He must have two phones,” Megan realized. “Two sets of documents. Two life stories. Even his parents are in on it. How long has this been going on?”
Susan did the math in her head.
“Since the beginning. We met at the gym seven years ago, and he told me about his work schedule right away. I never doubted him because he was always so consistent.”
Megan remembered meeting him four years ago in a bookstore. Mike had mentioned his frequent business trips then, too, presenting it as an unavoidable part of his job. He’d even shown her pay stubs from a construction company.
“What company does he work for?” Susan asked.
Megan named the firm. Susan shook her head; her documents listed a different company. It meant Mike was either officially employed in two places at once or not working at all.
Megan called the company where her husband supposedly worked. A polite receptionist informed her that Michael Bell had resigned three years ago. Susan called her company and got the same answer: he’d left four years ago. All those business trips were a lie.
Susan put down her phone and covered her face with her hands.
“He’s just been moving from one house to the other. But where does the money come from? He brings home a paycheck every month.”
“Mine too,” Megan confirmed. “In cash. He said the company has old-fashioned payroll. Now I see. He’s supporting two families with money from both of us.”
The women showed each other their ultrasound pictures. The images were strikingly similar. The same S-shaped anomaly in the cardiac septum. The same profile, the same proportions. Their children weren’t just half-siblings; they were practically twins, born to different mothers two weeks apart.
“What do we do now?” Susan stroked her belly, where a child with the genetic mark of a liar was growing. “Confront him? Forgive him? Try to save what’s left of our families?”
Megan had been asking herself the same questions all the way to the coffee shop. Can you build a life on a foundation of lies? Can you raise a child knowing his father is capable of such profound deceit? And most importantly, how many other women could be in their situation?
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