The Other Wife Pinned On His Second Phone

“Mom, why does Dad have two phones?” My son, Max, asked me in a small voice, clutching a piece of candy. “What two phones, sweetie?” “Just… the one in his briefcase. It’s not the one he usually uses. Last time he answered it, he called that person his wife.” Max blinked his large eyes at me. “But, Mom, you’re his wife.” My hand froze mid-air. The smile was still plastered on my face, but the blood had already turned to ice. “Honey, why don’t you go watch cartoons for a bit?” I stroked his hair, keeping my voice steady. Only one thought burned in my mind: I need to see for myself what’s inside that phone.

1. Marcus came home very late that night. The door clicked shut at eleven p.m. I lay in bed without moving, listening to his routine. First, the shower, then about twenty minutes in his home office, which he always claimed was to “decompress.” Finally, he came into the bedroom. He moved silently, careful not to wake me. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even and slow. He settled into his side of the bed. His phone—the black-cased one I recognized—was placed on the nightstand. But Max said there was another one. I waited. One minute, two minutes, five. His breathing deepened and evened out. I opened my eyes, rolled over slowly, and slipped out of bed. Before leaving the room, I glanced back at him. He was fast asleep. I walked to the living room. His leather briefcase was by the sofa. I opened it, sifting through the contents. Folders, a charging brick, a packet of tissues. And then— A second phone. Silver, sleek, completely unlike his primary device. My hands were shaking slightly. I pressed the power button. No password. I tapped the messaging app. The first thing I saw was the pinned chat at the top. The contact name was simply two words: My Wife. The profile picture was of a woman. Long hair, a side profile. I couldn’t make out her face. I clicked on the chat. The most recent message was from 5:43 p.m. that afternoon. From him: “My Wife, I have to work late tonight. Can’t make dinner. Miss you.” Her reply: “Okay, hurry home then. I made soup.” His response: “Good girl. Wait up for me.” I stared at those last three words for a long time. Good girl. Wait up for me. He had never once said those words to me. Not in our ten years together. I scrolled up. Yesterday. “My Wife, taking you to the movies this weekend.” “Yay! I want to see that new rom-com.” “Anything you want.” The day before. “My Wife, long day? Are you tired?” “Not too bad. Just missing you.” “Missing you too, honey. Video chat tonight?” “Definitely.” I kept scrolling, one message after another. Every single one began with “My Wife.” Every single one was laced with “Missing you,” “I love you,” “I can’t wait to see you.” Every single one was a sentence I hadn’t heard in a decade. I had been married to him for ten years. I had borne his child. I had given up my career. I spent my days revolving around the kitchen and the school pick-up line. He didn’t call me My Wife. In his contacts, I was listed by my full name. Audrey Sullivan. Two words. Cold and functional. And this other woman— He called her his Wife. I scrolled back to the earliest message. Two years ago. A full two years. I kept going. Transfer records. $800, $600, $1,200, $800. Memos: “Treat yourself to something nice,” “Wife is working so hard,” “For clothes.” I counted. This year alone, he had transferred over $30,000 to her. Thirty thousand. My monthly household allowance was $1,500. I still hesitated to buy a $40 t-shirt. Last month, I asked him for a new coat. My old parka was four years old. He said, “Can’t you still wear the old one? We need to be sensible with money.” Sensible. He told me to be sensible. He gave this woman thirty thousand dollars a year. I slipped the phone back into his briefcase. I walked to the balcony and stood there for a long time. It was cold outside, and the wind was sharp. I didn’t cry. I just stood, staring at the lights of the city. A million lights. Which one was mine? Was this house, this home I had spent ten years maintaining, even mine? No. It never was. I was just a housekeeper. A free, stay-at-home, child-rearing, unpaid nanny. At one a.m., I returned to the bedroom. I lay down. Closed my eyes. Marcus’s breathing was close, even, and steady. I stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds. The sun came up. I hadn’t slept. But I knew this much— I couldn’t say a word. Not yet. I needed more. I needed to know exactly how much this man had taken from me. 2. The next morning, Marcus was up early. I pretended to wake up, rubbing my eyes. “Up so early today?” “Yeah, something came up at the office.” He dressed quickly and walked into the living room. I heard the sound of him picking up his briefcase. “Want some breakfast?” I called out. “Can’t. Too rushed. I’ll grab something on the road.” The front door opened, then closed. I didn’t move from the bed. Max was still asleep. At seven a.m., the only sounds were the birds outside the window. I got up, showered, and made Max’s breakfast. Everything was routine. At eight, I drove Max to preschool. At nine, I was back home. I turned on the computer. I was going to find out who this woman was. I had set up Marcus’s email account, so I knew the password. I logged into his work email. I checked “Sent Mail.” I found it. A hotel invoice. The Hilton, King Suite, two nights. The date was last month. Last month, he told me he was on a three-day business trip. I kept searching. Then, flight information. Two tickets. Same flight, same day, same destination: Laguna Beach. The name on the second ticket: Jenny Lin. Jenny Lin. I ran the name through my mind. Never heard of her. I opened a new tab and searched the company’s internal employee directory. Found her. Jenny Lin, Marketing Department, hired two years ago. The photo showed a young woman. Late twenties, long hair, perfectly made-up, eyes crinkling in a bright smile. She was stunning. Younger than me. Prettier than me. I stared at the photo for a long time. This was his “Wife.” His colleague. His subordinate. His— I took a deep breath. I shut down the computer. I didn’t call him to confront him. I didn’t rush to his office to make a scene. I didn’t even cry. I just sat on the sofa, staring out the window. Ten years. I had married him ten years ago. I quit my job for him, gave up my career, transitioning from a professional earning $60,000 a year to a full-time homemaker. He had said, “You stay home with the kids, I’ll earn the money. Clear division of labor.” I believed him. He had said, “Once Max’s older, you can go back to work.” I believed him. He had said, “I’ll provide for you. Don’t worry.” I believed him. And the result? He was providing for another woman. Missing you, My Wife, Wait up for me. Not one of those words was ever meant for me. I leaned back on the sofa, tracing the last two years. When did he change? It must have been two years ago. The business trips increased. The late nights became routine. The time spent at home decreased. I thought he was busy with work. Once, I asked him, “Why are you working so much overtime lately?” He had been impatient. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s complicated.” I wouldn’t understand. He was right, I didn’t understand. All I understood was doing laundry, cooking, raising our child, and catering to his mother. I understood how to keep everything running perfectly so he had a hot dinner, clean clothes, someone to pick up our son, and someone to fulfill his filial duties. What I didn’t understand was— His second phone housed a second life. At three p.m., I left to pick up Max. On the way, I asked him, “Max, how many times has Daddy brought you to see that lady?” Max thought about it. “Twice, maybe… or three times? One time we went to the amusement park, and she was there too. She bought me an action figure.” My heart clenched. “What did the lady look like?” “She had long hair. She was pretty. She said I looked like Daddy.” She said I looked like Daddy. She had seen my son. She knew I existed. She knew he had a wife and a child, and she stayed with him anyway. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Max tugged at my sleeve. I looked down and smiled at him. “Nothing, sweetie. Mom was just thinking.” Back home, I put on a movie for Max. I went into the bedroom and closed the door. I needed to clear my thoughts. First, Marcus and Jenny had been together for at least two years. Second, he spent significantly more money on her than on me. Third, he had introduced my son to her. Fourth, it was likely an open secret at the company. I couldn’t make a scene. A scene wouldn’t help. I needed to be strategic. I needed to figure out my next move. That evening, Marcus returned home.