My husband went on a business trip to another city for a month, and I decided to move his favorite cactus in a pot to another place, but accidentally broke it while carrying it. My hair stood on end from what I saw inside…

About the same as he brought home monthly as salary. It turns out that all these years he divided his income between two families. But he always said that he didn’t earn as much as he would like.

We saved, set aside for the future, denied ourselves some things. But in fact, he was just giving half of his income to another woman and child. I tried to remember when I first noticed some strangeness in John’s behavior.

But nothing specific came to mind. He had always been a caring husband, called from business trips, brought gifts, was interested in my affairs. Yes, lately he had become more withdrawn, sometimes absent-minded, but I attributed it to fatigue and work problems. How blind I was.

How I didn’t notice the obvious signs. Now, looking back, I could recall a multitude of little things that should have alerted me. His strange calls, which he preferred to make not from home, but somewhere on the street or in the car.

His unexpected changes in business trip schedules. He would return earlier, then delay without much explanation. His reluctance to have children, although we used to talk about it as a matter of course.

A child. John already had a child. A son.

Who should now be about 14 years old. A teenager. And all these years I thought we postponed having children for financial reasons and the desire to get on our feet first.

From these thoughts, tears welled up in my eyes. I felt deceived, used, thrown to the side of his real life. Who was I to him all these years? Entertainment? A backup option? Or just a convenient screen for his dark dealings? I remembered the strange video where John talked about some danger, about the need to be careful.

Maybe his double life was connected to something illegal. Maybe he was involved in some dubious affairs. Work.

John always said he worked in a construction company, dealing with material supplies, negotiating with partners. But was that the truth? I had never been to his office, didn’t know his colleagues. He always kept his work life separate from home.

I decided to check. There should be some documents related to his work on the flash drive. And indeed, in one of the folders I found contracts, agreements, business correspondence.

But the company mentioned in these documents was called completely different from the one where, according to John, he worked. And the field of activity was different. Not construction, but logistics.

International transportation. The further I delved into the study of the documents, the more confused I became. Some contracts were drawn up in foreign languages, with companies from countries I knew almost nothing about.

The amounts mentioned in these documents made me doubt their legality. Where did a modest supply manager get such money? In one of the last folders, I found something that finally knocked me off track. These were scans of passports.

Not one, but several. And all of them were issued in John’s name, but with different surnames. Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson.

Why does a person need several passports with different surnames? The answer suggested itself, but I was afraid to even mentally formulate it. It was already getting dark outside when I finally tore myself away from the computer. My head was buzzing from the abundance of information, my eyes were tired from staring at the screen.

I felt devastated, squeezed like a lemon. But at the same time, somewhere deep inside, determination was born. I had to find out the whole truth, no matter how bitter it was.

First, I needed to check if this Sarah and her son David really existed, or if it was some sophisticated invention. Photographs and videos could be fake, documents fabricated.

I needed irrefutable proof. I took out my phone and opened social networks. If this woman is real, she should have accounts, photos, friends.

I entered «Sarah Miller» in the search bar and got a lot of results. Too many to view each profile. I needed to narrow the search.

I returned to the flash drive and found Sarah’s date of birth in the documents. February 27, 1985. She was three years older than me.

I added this information to the search query, and the results became significantly fewer. Now I needed to compare the photos with the one I found in the box. After a few minutes of viewing, I found her.

The profile was closed, with minimal personal information, but the main photo left no doubt. It was the same woman. Dark hair, expressive eyes, sad smile.

Only now she looked older than in the photograph from the box, which was quite natural. Scrolling through her posts, which were available even without adding as a friend, I saw several photos of a teenage boy. He was strikingly similar to John.

The same eyes, the same lip shape, even the way he smiled. Dimples appeared in the corners of the mouth, which I loved so much in my husband. There were no doubts left. Sarah and David existed.

They were real people, not the product of someone’s sick imagination. And apparently, they really were John’s family. His real family.

I scrolled through Sarah’s feed and came across a post dated last week. The photo showed a set table with a birthday cake, and the caption read: «Happy birthday, beloved husband.

May all your dreams come true.» John’s birthday was last week. He celebrated it on a business trip.

Or rather, as I now understood, with his other family. Bitterness and resentment overwhelmed me with new force. I threw the phone on the couch and burst into tears.

Loudly, sobbing, as I hadn’t cried in many years. All the accumulated tension, the shock of the discovery, the pain of betrayal. All this poured out in a stream of tears. I don’t know how long I sat like that, giving vent to my emotions.

Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. When I finally calmed down, it was already dark outside. I felt empty, but at the same time strangely liberated.

As if I had cried out not only the pain, but also part of my former personality. That naive, trusting woman who blindly believed her husband. Wiping away my tears, I picked up the phone again.

Now I needed to learn as much as possible about this Sarah. Who is she? What does she do? How long has she known John? Despite the closed profile, I managed to learn something from publicly available information. Place of work.

Some company, East Trans. Judging by the name, related to transport or logistics. The same sphere in which, as I learned from the documents, John actually worked.

A few friends, common interests. Nothing special, nothing that could explain why John led a double life. I thought.

If Sarah really considers herself John’s legal wife, she probably doesn’t know about my existence. Or does she? Maybe she is the same victim of deception as I am. I needed to talk to her. Directly, face to face.

But how to arrange it? I couldn’t just send her a message. «Good day, I’m your husband’s wife. Let’s meet and discuss the situation.»

It would sound like the beginning of a cheap melodrama. But I needed answers. And it seemed that Sarah was the only person besides John who could give them to me.

I returned to the documents on the flash drive and found the address of the apartment Sarah rented. Boston, Academic Street, house 15, apartment 42. I wrote down the address, trying to decide what to do next.

Go to Boston? Right now? It seemed like madness. But sitting and waiting for John’s return, pretending nothing happened, was even madder. Moreover, I didn’t know when he would actually return.

He said the business trip would last a month, but now I understood that I couldn’t believe a single word he said. The decision came by itself. I’ll go to Boston.

Tomorrow. I’ll find this Sarah and talk to her. Maybe she knows more than I do. Maybe she herself is a victim of John’s deception.

Or maybe she is his accomplice in some dark affairs. In any case, I had to find out the truth. Having made the decision, I felt strange relief.

At least now I had a plan of action, something concrete to cling to in this chaos. I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. Despite the lack of appetite, I needed to eat something.

The day had been hard, and tomorrow promised to be even harder. I would need strength. Opening the refrigerator, I mechanically took out products and began to prepare a simple dinner.

My hands moved on autopilot, making familiar movements, while my thoughts continued to revolve around the discovered secret. How could John lead a double life? How did he manage to lie to both of us without arousing suspicion? And most importantly. Why? Why did he need two families, two homes, two lives? The financial aspect also haunted me.

Maintaining two families required considerable funds. Where did John get such money? An ordinary job in a logistics company was unlikely to provide such a level of income. Maybe he really was involved in something illegal.

I remembered his strange video message to Sarah, where he talked about some danger, about the need to be careful. Maybe he was connected to the criminal world? Maybe all this double life was part of some complex scheme? But what? Questions multiplied, and there were no answers. I understood that without a conversation with John or Sarah, I would remain in the dark.

But I couldn’t wait for my husband’s return. Too much lie, too many secrets. I had to act now.

After dinner, I began to pack for the road. The train to Boston left early in the morning, I could buy a ticket online. I packed a small bag with the essentials, not knowing how long I would be in the city.

Then I checked my bank account. There was enough money for the trip and staying in a hotel for a few days. The last thing I did was clean up the mess in the bedroom.

I collected the pot shards, swept up the scattered soil, put the cactus in a new pot. The damaged plant looked a bit rumpled, but seemed quite viable. It’s funny how such a trifle as a broken pot could lead to such global changes in my life.

After finishing the cleaning, I took a shower and went to bed. Despite the fatigue, sleep didn’t come. I tossed and turned from side to side, replaying the events of the day in my head, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my life, which I considered quite prosperous, was actually built on lies.

Around three in the morning, I finally fell into a restless sleep, full of strange, disturbing visions. I dreamed of John, but with a different face. He spoke to me, but his words were incomprehensible, like in a foreign language.

And somewhere nearby was always that woman, Sarah, with a child in her arms, looking at me with a sad smile. I woke up to the sound of the alarm clock at six in the morning. My head was heavy after a sleepless night, but my determination hadn’t left me.

I quickly got ready, called a taxi and went to the station. The train to Boston left at 7:30. I took my seat by the window and prepared for the three-hour journey. Outside the window flashed city outskirts, replaced by fields and forests, but I hardly paid attention to them. My thoughts were occupied with the upcoming meeting with Sarah.

What will I say to her? How will I explain my appearance? And most importantly. How will she react to the news that her husband is married to another woman? I imagined myself in her place. How would I react if a stranger appeared at my door, claiming to be my husband’s wife? Most likely, I wouldn’t believe it.

I would think it was some ridiculous joke or mistake. I needed proof. Something that would convince Sarah of the truth of my words.

I took out my phone and looked through my photos with John. Here’s our wedding photo. We’re standing under an arch of flowers, happy and in love.

Here’s a photo from our honeymoon in Italy. And here’s last year’s New Year. John in a funny Santa hat hugging me by the shoulders.

These photos should convince Sarah that I’m not some crazy fantasist. But are they enough? Maybe take the marriage certificate with me? It was at home, in the document drawer. No, I decided. Photos should be enough.

Besides, I had the flash drive with documents that I found in the cactus pot. If necessary, I’ll show them to Sarah. The train arrived in Boston right on schedule.

10:25 am. I stepped out onto the noisy platform of the central station and plunged into the hustle and bustle of the big city. I had never been in this city before, and in another situation, I might have been impressed by the scale and energy of the metropolis.

But now I wasn’t up to sightseeing. I was focused on my goal. I called a taxi and gave the address.

Academic Street, house 15. The driver nodded and drove me across the city. The journey took about an hour due to traffic, and all this time I tried to collect my thoughts, prepare for the upcoming conversation.

But the closer we got to the destination, the more excitement gripped me. What if she’s not home? What if the door is opened by that same boy, David? What will I say to him? Or even worse, what if I find John there? After all, he might not be on a business trip, as he told me, but here, with his other family. This thought made me hot…