“But he called her his wife.”
“Yes.”
My hands began trembling.
I stared at the woman in white.
Had Vincent married her?
Had he staged a ceremony?
Did Vanessa believe she was legally married?
Or had they both agreed to pretend?
I didn’t know.
And for once, I refused to turn uncertainty into an answer simply because I was frightened.
Rebecca continued.
“Don’t contact Vanessa through her medical information, and don’t ask anyone at the hospital to look into her records.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know. I’m saying it because the distinction matters.”
I nodded.
She was right.
I was a physician.
I had access to confidential systems because patients trusted the hospital to protect their information.
That trust didn’t disappear because one patient happened to be my husband’s mistress.
Rebecca continued.
“We can verify public marriage records where available and make appropriate inquiries through legal channels.”
“Okay.”
Then she asked, “Have you reviewed the joint account statements I requested?”
My stomach tightened.
“Some.”
“Anything unusual?”
I looked at the folder.
“Transfers.”
“How many?”
“More than I realized.”
She paused.
“Let’s review them carefully before drawing conclusions.”
I nodded.
After the call, I opened our joint savings account.
For years, Vincent and I had been contributing money toward a family fund.
It wasn’t a formal trust.
Just a savings account we’d designated for future needs.
Fertility treatment.
Parental leave.
A nursery.
A bigger emergency reserve.
After our miscarriage, I stopped checking it regularly.
Every statement reminded me of the child we’d lost.
Vincent offered to manage the transfers.
I thanked him.
Now I scrolled through the transaction history.
A transfer for twelve thousand dollars.
Another for eight thousand.
Then several smaller withdrawals.
Some were labeled as reimbursements.
Others as family expenses.
But the destination information didn’t match accounts I recognized.
I counted.
Then counted again.
Over eighteen months, more than seventy thousand dollars had moved out of the account in ways I didn’t understand.
My hands went cold.
For a moment, I stared at the numbers.
I remembered Vincent telling me we needed to delay renovating the spare bedroom.
That childcare would be expensive.
That we should be careful about spending too much on fertility consultations after the miscarriage.
He’d said we needed to build our savings.
Meanwhile, money had been leaving the account.
I couldn’t yet prove what it had paid for.
But I knew one thing.
Vincent had been making financial decisions without explaining them.
And the amounts were much larger than the hotel bills.
I saved copies of the statements.
Then sent them to Rebecca.
At six that evening, Vincent called.
I let it ring.
Then he called again.
And again.
Finally, he sent a message.
Claire, I know you’re upset, but there are things you don’t understand about Vanessa.
I stared.
Then another appeared.
She isn’t trying to replace you.
I almost laughed.
The photograph of Vanessa in a white dress remained open on my laptop.
I looked at it.
Then typed:
Please communicate with Rebecca about the divorce.
I sent the message.
A moment later, Vincent responded.
Are you really going to throw away five years over one mistake?
I read the words.
One mistake.
Three years.
Dozens of lies.
A woman in a white dress.
A second pregnancy.
Money disappearing from our savings.
And he was calling it one mistake.
I closed the laptop.
Then walked downstairs.
Julia’s husband, Daniel, was helping their children build a tower out of wooden blocks.
My niece looked up.
“Aunt Claire!”
I smiled.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She held up a block.
“Help?”
I sat on the carpet.
“Of course.”
For the next twenty minutes, I built an uneven wooden tower with two children who cared nothing about Vincent’s explanations.
The tower fell three times.
Every time, my niece laughed.
Then began rebuilding.
I watched her carefully.
There was something comforting about the simplicity.
Things broke.
You acknowledged they were broken.
Then decided what to do next.
You didn’t stand over the pieces insisting nothing had happened.
Later, when the children went upstairs, Julia sat beside me.
She looked at my face.
“Bad phone call?”
I nodded.
“More messages.”
She sighed.
“Of course.”
I hesitated.
Then opened the photograph.
The ceremony.
The flowers.
Vanessa’s white dress.
I handed Julia the phone.
She stared.
Then looked at me.
“Claire.”
I nodded.
Her face changed.
“Is that a wedding?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked down again.
For a long moment, she was silent.
Then whispered, “What else has he been hiding?”
I thought about the seventy thousand dollars.
The unanswered calls.
The woman in white.
And the baby growing inside me.
Then I said the only truthful thing I could.
“I don’t think we’ve found out yet.”
