I never knew that a cactus in a pot could make such a big difference in my life. But it did. And not only in the way that “life is strange.” No, this was real. For real. My husband’s favorite cactus, which he called “The General,” broke on the floor of the bedroom. This ruined the façade of our marriage.
It all started on a quiet Saturday morning. The light from spring was warm and came into our apartment, making everything look golden. John had left for a month-long business trip to New York two days before. That’s what he said to me, at least.
Since I was alone in the house, I decided to rearrange some furniture that I had been wanting to do for months. John, who was always a traditionalist, hated change. He liked our house just the way it was. His favorite was the row of cacti that lived like tiny warriors on the windowsill of his bedroom.
He had been collecting them for years. Giving them water, moving them around, and even talking to them. But “The General,” a large, thorny plant in a heavy clay pot, earned the most affection. He wrote me notes about how to take care of it when he wasn’t there. And every time, I rolled my eyes. Who gets so close to a cactus?
That morning, as I was having problems moving our old dresser across the room, I found out that the cacti would now be right over the drawers. Not safe. I could hit a needle if I pull the wrong direction. I chose to move them.
The smaller ones were easy enough. I did think about that when I went to The General, though. I picked it up with both hands and my gloves. It was surprising that it was heavier than I remembered.
I could see our wedding picture on the nightstand from halfway across the room. We looked so young and in love in that picture. But lately, the fire had gone out. John had grown distant. Not paying attention. But I believed it was just work stress and not enough time.
I was feeling nostalgic in a sad way, so I didn’t notice the edge of the rug under my foot. I slid down. The pot dropped. The general fell down.
When the clay broke, it sounded like a gunshot in the room.
The first thing that sprang to mind was John, not the cactus. What he would do. The expression on his face when he came back and saw that his beloved cactus had died. I could tell he was upset right away.
I grabbed a dustpan and proceeded to clean up the dirt when I discovered something shiny. A small metal key is buried under a lot of soil. Strange. What is the key doing in the pot?
I picked it up because I wanted to know what it was. It was little, like something you might use to hold mail or a small lockbox. And that wasn’t trash for sure.
Then, something else happened. A plastic bag that is buried deeper in the ground. There is a black USB flash drive inside. My hands got chilly. What was this doing in the box with the cactus?
I dug through the rest of the dirt and found something else. A small metal box with rust on the edges. The little keyhole was perfect for the key. My heart raced.
I thought about it. It’s evident that John didn’t want me to find this. But who puts things in a cactus?
I put the key in.
Inside the box was a faded picture of a woman and a baby. He had never met the woman before. Her dark hair, bright eyes, and beautiful smile made her look melancholy. The baby fell asleep on her chest. There is a woman’s handwriting on the reverse of the picture that states, “David and Sarah.” Always together. June 10, 2009.
My stomach hurt. Who were they?
I took the USB drive to the living room and inserted it into our laptop. It opened right away. Folders. Many of them. I clicked on one.
David Miller’s passport scan in PDF format. June 10, 2009, was the day they were born.
Then the birth certificate came. The mother is Sarah Miller. John Anderson is the father.
My husband.
I was losing my mind. A boy? Sarah is a woman? A child he never told me about?
I found the marriage license after that. On May 15, 2009, John Anderson and Sarah Miller got married. Four months before John and I met for the first time.
More documents. Insurance policies, real estate papers, and money transfers were all part of John’s existence. A life without me in it.
I opened a folder with a lot of images in it. There he was. My John. With Sarah. With David. On the beach. At birthday gatherings. Putting Christmas presents in their living room.
Every picture hit me hard.
I watched a video. John stared straight at the camera. He went on, “Sarah, if you’re seeing this, something is wrong.” “I love you and Davey more than anything else in the world.”
There were more videos. Some are quite loving. Some are hard to understand and seem dangerous. Deals with other countries. Accounts at banks that are hard to find. There are a lot of passports with John’s photo on them, but they all have different names.
Was he a bad guy? A scammer? A secret agent? My mind was full of questions. They all didn’t have answers.
The last video was barely three weeks old. John said to Sarah, “I’ll be in Miami for a few more days than I thought.” Give Davey a hug for me.
But he said he was in Chicago.
I gazed through the rest of the drive. Lease agreements, bank statements, and business papers all pointed to a second existence. A second family. A different name.
And I was the dumbass who didn’t see it coming.
I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Like a cyclone, anger, despair, and betrayal were all swirling around inside me. My heart wasn’t the only thing that broke. I was broken.
Who had I been to him? A story to tell? A backup plan?
I tried to talk to John. Voice mail. I tried again. Nothing.
I had to know the truth. All of it.
I searched the web for Sarah Miller. She had disguised her social media profiles, but one profile image showed it was the same woman. I looked at what I could see. Teenage lad pictures that looked just like John. I said on Facebook last week, “Happy birthday to my wonderful husband.”
He was there for them on that birthday. Not for work. With them.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. But I got stiffer in the morning. I was done being quiet.
I packed a little backpack and rode the first train to Boston. One of the papers had Sarah’s address on it. Apartment 42 on Academic Street.
I stood in front of her door, my heart beating.
No answer.
An old neighbor stopped by and gave me a suspicious look. “Are you looking for Sarah?” she said.
I answered, “Yes.”
“They’re at their cabin for the weekend,” she said. “Not coming back until Monday.”
Just my luck.
But the neighbor provided me a phone number, maybe because they knew how essential it was to me. “Just in case,” she said.
I thanked her and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The bright sun beamed on the street, making me feel bad inside. I walked to a nearby café and sat down to eat lunch, which I hadn’t done yet.
Then I made a decision.
I’d give Sarah a call.
Not to fault. Not to shout. Just to chat. Woman to woman. Wife to… wife?
I saw her number and hovered my thumb over the button to dial.
But I knew I had to do this in person.
And I was willing to wait.
It all started with a crash. A pot breaks on the bedroom floor. John, my husband, affectionately called the cactus “The General.” It was on its side, with its thick, thorny limbs sagging in a pile of dirt.
I thought it would be easy to clean up, but it turned out to be the end of my life.
As I knelt down to pick up the dirt, I saw something shining and metal in the sun. A little key. Strange. Next, I found a plastic bag with a USB flash drive in it. It was sealed and had dirt on it. There was a metal box with rust stains on it near the bottom of the broken pot. It was no bigger than a pack of matches.
I opened it with the key, my hands shaking. Inside was an ancient picture. A woman I had never seen before, with black hair and gentle eyes, was holding a sleeping child to her chest. On the reverse, it says “Sarah and David.” Always together. June 10, 2009.
I stopped breathing. Who were they? And why were they hidden in the thing my spouse loved the most?
I used the flash drive on our home computer because I needed answers. What I found shattered all I thought I knew.
John has another family.
I didn’t know that Sarah Miller had marriage certificates, David had birth certificates, passports, insurance policies, and bank accounts. Pictures and videos of happy family memories spent together… But the woman wasn’t me. And what about the kid? He was just like John.
The videos John made for Sarah were a lot frightening. “If you see this, something went wrong.” He talked about risk, insurance, contracts with people from foreign nations, and how important it is to stay hidden. Every word felt like a rock in my chest.
And then there was the last blow: a video from last month. John was in a hotel room with Sarah and said he was “delayed in Miami.” But he had told me he was in Chicago.
The lies weren’t just about what happened in the past. They were still happening.
I didn’t start crying right away. I sat there, frozen, staring at the television as if it might alter. But after a while, it hit me: my partner had two homes, two families, and two names.
How could I not have seen it?
He was always on the road for work and was always a little emotionally distant. I felt it was because he was stressed out from his hard job. But now I could see everything well. Most of the “business trips” were really trips to see her.
And to their child.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I continued going over everything in my head: our wedding, our vacations, and the quiet mornings we spent together drinking coffee. The whole time he was with me, he was in love with another woman and raising a son I didn’t know about.
I needed to know more. I needed to meet this woman in person.
The next morning, I rode the train to Boston with a small backpack. I found the address on the documents and proceeded to a regular apartment building on Academic Street. But when I knocked on the door of flat 42, no one answered.
A nice but nosy older woman who lived next door told me that Sarah and her child were at their cabin for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until Monday. I’d gotten this far… But I still didn’t know what to do.
But fate had other plans for me.
The neighbor might have known I was angry and gave me Sarah’s phone number.
I stared at the number for hours. Should I call her? What would I even say? “Hello, I’m the other wife of your husband.” How do you say that on the phone?
I thought about every possible direction that conversation may go in my head in a nearby café. None of them ended well.
I called John instead. Voicemail right away.
I was stranded between the past I thought I had and a future that didn’t make sense to me anymore.
But it was clear that I couldn’t keep acting like everything was fine. I had to keep looking. I needed to know the truth, not just about John’s betrayal, but also about who he really was.
The man I married was a lot more than just a liar.
He could have been a lot more of a threat.