Chapter 3: The Other Woman

Two

Derek always had a strong sex drive.

Disciplined and restrained by day, but at night, he was demanding. Sometimes I’d joke that I got more of his energy than his Peloton bike. Lately, the pressure on him had grown. He had to be thorough and precise in everything, which made him more closed off than ever.

Only in those tender moments at night, when he gasped into my ear, could I catch a glimpse of the boy who used to blush whenever he saw me. Sometimes, I’d catch him tracing his thumb along my jaw, the way he did when we first met in the university library.

We were classmates in grad school. He chased after me. That cool, aloof boy only showed his burning gaze and trembling voice to me. I fell for him quickly.

Afterward, I stayed at the university to teach psychology. He started as a junior lawyer, worked his way up to partner, and became a nationally renowned divorce attorney earning millions a year. Our Christmas cards got fancier, our parties more lavish. But it always felt like we’d built something solid—something that could weather any storm.

In terms of personality, we were alike:

Emotionally steady, rational, practical, objective, calm, particular about quality of life, and willing to work hard for our ideals.

My job was stable and respected, letting me balance family and career. His career was a soaring success. Married eight years, we respected each other, supported each other, lived in a multimillion-dollar home in Maple Heights, and had a son praised as a prodigy.

We looked like the perfect family. Sometimes I caught other parents staring at us at Caleb’s chess tournaments—envy, curiosity, maybe even hope that perfection was possible.

But half a year ago, he started to change.

He’d always gone out running at night.

Before, he’d leave at eight and be back by nine. After showering, we’d have half an hour of family time.

Like clockwork. Caleb would challenge us both to chess, or we’d eat popcorn and watch reruns of Jeopardy! But six months ago, he started leaving at seven and coming home at ten, looking exhausted, going straight to bed after his shower, and skipping family time.

I asked why his runs were taking so long.

He pressed his lips together and said flatly, "I’m stuck on a case. Being outside helps clear my head."

Mental work can be more draining than physical. I understood. Or at least I tried to. But the distance between us kept growing, as if someone was quietly moving the furniture farther and farther apart.

Later, he seemed to lose interest in sex. I figured the stress was getting to him. Not wanting to hurt his pride, I didn’t bring it up, but I worried about him. There were nights I’d roll over, hand searching for him, only to find cold sheets.

That’s why, after his fall and hospitalization, I insisted he take time off and pushed for a full medical checkup. But now, it seemed things weren’t what I thought...

I lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

His words tonight made him feel like a stranger. His expression made it even more unreal. After two major shocks in one day, my curiosity actually drowned out the sadness and anger I should have felt.

I was really curious. What kind of woman was on the other end of that call, who could turn Derek—who’d been nothing but cold and rational for years—into this?

I’ve always been direct.

The next night, I slipped sleeping pills into his milk. The clink of the pill against the glass made my stomach twist. For a second, I almost stopped. Guilt flashed through me, but I pressed on.

He slept soundly. I used his finger to unlock his phone.

My hands shook. I felt like a teenager sneaking out past curfew, heart pounding so loud I thought it would wake him. I found the number from last night’s call and stared at it for a long time, until something clicked.

I’d seen this number before.

Three months ago, after Derek fell hiking and was hospitalized, I’d asked the police for the contact info of the person who found him and called for help, wanting to thank them.

The police gave me this exact number.

I have a great memory, especially for numbers. Numbers stick with me, like old phone jingles or Caleb’s tournament scores.

There’s no way I was wrong.

I dialed the number in front of the officer, and a woman answered.

Her voice was gentle and kind, but sounded a bit older.

She said softly that she didn’t want to meet, that thanks weren’t necessary—anyone would have done the same.

After hanging up, the officer smiled and told me that while some people might ask for a reward, she definitely wouldn’t.

I asked why.

The officer said they’d recognized her during questioning. She’d been on the local news as the “Most Inspiring Woman.”

"She’s had a tough life. Her husband had a sudden brain hemorrhage and was left completely paralyzed on their wedding day, with a seven-year-old son from his previous marriage. She never left him, took care of him for thirteen years, and raised that boy on her own. The man died last year. She finally made it through and now runs a little soup stand by the park."

"With morals like that, how could she take your reward?"

I’d nodded, touched. "My husband was lucky to meet her."

Now, in the middle of the night, I stared at the phone, then opened his photo album.

I don’t know if Derek was too confident or just trusted me—he’d barely hidden anything.

What I saw was screen after screen of photos of a woman.

The same woman.

Under the starry sky, a small food stand glowed with warm light and rising steam.

The woman had gentle eyes and a bright smile, sometimes chopping vegetables, sometimes ladling soup, sometimes chatting with customers.

Every photo radiated warmth and a sense of peace.

Across hundreds of pictures, she went from summer dresses to heavy winter coats.

The time span was half a year.

On the third day, I went to the park and sat down at the little stand with the sign “Wendy’s Hearty Soup.”

It was one of those faded, hand-painted wooden signs you see at the edge of city parks—simple, unpretentious. I watched Wendy from a distance. She was crouched by a flower bed, talking softly to a stray kitten.

Two men stood by the stand, joking:

"Miss Wendy only has eyes for these cats and dogs. She’s not even here for the money anymore."

Wendy got up quickly, apologizing with a gentle voice:

"Sorry, I just felt bad for them and lost track of time. I didn’t see you come up."

One man waved it off. "You’re doing good deeds. These strays treat your place like home—they know you’re soft-hearted and come for food. It’s a nice sight for us, too."

After the men left, I walked over.

"One bowl of mutton soup."

Wendy smiled and ladled it for me.

Through the rising steam, I watched her quietly.

She looked mid-thirties, crow’s feet just starting to show, but her face was open, easy—like someone who’d never learned to hide her feelings. Her hair was tied loosely in a low ponytail, with a few strands falling out—she had a unique softness.

"First time here, right? Let me give you some extra lamb to try."

Her accent had a hint of the Midwest, friendly and unhurried. I sat at the little table, slowly tasting the soup. My mind kept circling one question.

Someone like Wendy, with her background and character...

Would she really get involved in someone else’s marriage?

Would she?