The laptop pinged, disrupting the movie we were viewing. Oliver had just gone to the bathroom and left his laptop open on the coffee table.
I looked at the screen, and the glowing topic line caught my eye.
“Dear Mr. Oliver,
We are happy to announce the New Year party is coming up! Dress code: White Party. You may bring your plus-one (your wife). Address…”
His company did not allow plus-ones. Never. I couldn’t count how many times I’d heard him whine about it. However, there it was in black and white—plus one (your wife).
When Oliver returned, I attempted to remain calm, despite my growing curiosity. “Your office is throwing a New Year’s party?” I asked casually.
“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “Nothing big. Just the usual end-of-year stuff.”
“Can I come?”
“No, they don’t allow guests. It’s more of a work event.”
I frowned. “But the email said—”
“They don’t, Jen. Trust me.”
That was the first time I experienced something unusual. Oliver was usually working late or traveling for business, so I’d become accustomed to his absence. I trusted him because that is what married people do. However, this time, his response felt… odd.
New Year’s Eve had arrived, and I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my white outfit.
Curiosity had been gnawing at me for days. Why didn’t he want me at the party? Was he embarrassed? Hiding something?
“Happy New Year, Jen!” he called, grabbing his coat and kissing my cheek.
“Happy New Year,” I replied.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I grabbed my purse and went outside.
As I approached the reception desk, I felt frightened but resolute.
“Name, please?” the manager asked with a polite smile.
“Jennifer. I’m Oliver’s wife,”
“I think there’s been some confusion. Oliver already checked in… with his plus-one. His real wife.”
“He arrived about 30 minutes ago. They always arrive together, I’ve seen them many times.”
I caught sight of Oliver at the far corner of the room.
He was easily identifiable in his pristine white suit. My breath caught as I saw him with her—a woman with long dark hair who rested her arm on his shoulder.
“Ma’am?” the manager asked gently, breaking into my thoughts.
“No need to check. I see him.”
He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but I had already moved away from the desk, the party, and Oliver.
I had no idea what I was going to do, but one thing was certain: Oliver would regret it.
The next morning, the phone rang just as I was pouring my morning coffee.
“Is this Mr. Oliver’s wife?”
“Yes,”
“This is Mercy Hospital. Your husband was in a car accident early this morning. He’s stable, but we need you to come in right away.”
“He has a concussion and a broken arm. There are complications we’ll explain when you arrive.”
At the hospital.
“Jennifer?” a doctor called, walking toward me.
“He’s stable for now, but there’s an issue we need to address,” he explained, motioning for me to sit. “His arm is fractured in several places. There’s a risk of long-term damage unless we operate soon. Unfortunately, there’s a problem with his insurance. His policy lapsed last month. As his wife, you can authorize the procedure and arrange payment.”
When I entered Oliver’s room, the sight of him startled me. His face was pallid, and he wore a bandage around his head. His arm was in a sling, and he appeared more vulnerable than I had ever seen him.
“Jen,” he croaked when he saw me, his voice weak.
“I know you’re upset, but please… just listen. It’s not what you think.”
I said, my voice icy. “You lied to me. You’ve been lying to me. And last night, I saw you with her. You brought her to that party, didn’t you?”
“The doctor says you need su:rge:ry, but your insurance lapsed. That sounds like a problem for your real wife to handle.”
Part of me wanted to yell, cry, and aid him.
But then I remembered how many times I had trusted him just to discover it was all a lie.
“No, Oliver,” I said, my voice firm. “You’ve made your choices. Now you can live with them.”
For the first time in years, I realized I didn’t have to clean up his messes.
A few days later, I got a call from the hospital. It was not the doctor. It was Oliver.
“Jen, please,” he begged. His voice was raspy and almost indistinguishable. “She didn’t come. I’m alone here. I need you.”
I hung up and blocked his number.
In the weeks that followed, I learned through common friends that Oliver’s career was failing. The news of his aff:air spread at work. The woman he had paraded at the party was no longer seen with him, and his charisma did not appear to fool anyone anymore.
However, I did not feel sorry for him. I felt free.
For years, I, Jennifer, had been a devoted wife. Jen was now taking control of her own life.
