Love after my wife's betrayal

Chapter 3

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When I told my mom I’d sell the apartment, she was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Then why have the water, electricity, and gas bills kept going all these years?”

I had no idea. So, I made it a point to go check things out myself.

When I got there and knocked, Ben opened the door, half-awake and dressed in some worn-out sleepwear. He looked surprised to see me, but not as much as I was. Inside, the place was filled with art supplies—sketchboards, easels, brushes, paints scattered everywhere. The smell of paint lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of coffee. And then it hit me like a truck. I remembered a magazine interview from two years back where Ben, a budding artist, was being celebrated in the local art scene. Naomi had shown me the video with so much pride, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him talking about his work.

I realized then. That backdrop, the place in his interview that seemed oddly familiar—it was the very apartment my mom had bought as a wedding gift for me and Naomi. She’d told me she wanted us to have something better, something safe and comfortable. Naomi had refused it, insisting on staying in our tiny, run-down place. Yet here Ben was, living in the place that was supposed to be ours.

As if that wasn’t enough, Ben looked me over with a lazy smirk. “Hey, didn’t Naomi tell you to bring soup for me? Where’s the soup?”

I clenched my fists, anger simmering, but I forced myself to keep steady. “Why are you living here?” I asked him.

“Oh, this?” he said with a grin, gesturing around the place like he owned it. “Naomi let me stay here. She said the place I was renting before was too small and not inspiring enough. She thought moving here might get the creativity flowing, you know?” He chuckled, the pale look in his face doing little to hide his smugness.

Then he let out a soft sigh, almost mocking. “When you love someone, you want to give them the best. Unlike some people…” he paused and looked at me. “Even after getting married, you made Naomi live in that dump. I mean, come on, man—how useless can you be?”

His words dug deep, stirring memories of those cramped years Naomi and I had spent in that small, old apartment. The place had a damp smell that clung to everything, especially after it rained. And the floors—those creaky, uneven floors that I’d fixed one by one, hoping to make the place a little less miserable. Every time it rained, water leaked through the cracks in the ceiling, and we’d run around with bowls, trying to catch the drips.

But this place—this place was pristine. It was ours, given by my mom for us to grow into, to build a family in if we chose. And yet Naomi had given it away to him, for years.

A thought crossed my mind like a slow-burning realization. A few years back, Naomi had been furious with Ben after catching him in some shady affair with a woman he’d been meeting up with in some dingy place. I remember she’d come to me, soaked and shivering, asking me to marry her. I thought she’d moved on. I thought she’d chosen me. But now, standing in the middle of that apartment, I wondered if giving him this place was her way of trying to pull him away from whatever mess he’d been in back then.

The commotion of my argument with Ben had drawn the attention of a few neighbors, and they were watching us from the hallway, muttering to each other.

“Who does this guy think he is?” someone said. “This is Mr. Smith and Miss Hayes’s apartment—everyone in the building knows that.”

Another neighbor chimed in, “Yeah, they’ve been here for years! They’re practically the model couple around here. Haven’t you seen their picture on the bulletin board?”

It stung. All those years I thought Naomi and I were building a life, sacrificing, making do with what we had. And here, in this other world I didn’t know, they were celebrated as some perfect, happy couple.

That’s when I noticed the paintings. One caught my eye immediately—a nude portrait of Naomi, draped in a sheet, her face half-turned, a mole on her collarbone. It was unmistakably her. The image hit me like a punch, a thousand feelings rushing to the surface.

I moved closer to the painting, almost in a trance, as if maybe I could understand why, why she’d done any of this.

Suddenly, the elevator chimed, and the doors opened. There she was—Naomi, carrying two large grocery bags, her face a mixture of surprise and annoyance as she spotted me. She quickly masked it, her expression settling into a scowl.

“Didn’t I tell you to bring soup to the hospital, Eli?” Her voice was cold, almost biting. “Jason is sick. You think it’s alright to leave him waiting?”

I didn’t answer. I just looked at her, taking in the person standing before me. The woman I’d once loved so deeply, who I’d shared my life with, suddenly felt like a stranger.

She huffed, clearly irritated by my silence. “Fine,” she said, glancing at me with impatience. “You’re here anyway. I brought groceries. You can cook for him here, and I’ll take him to the hospital afterward. Once you’ve made the soup, put it in a thermos and bring it over, alright?”

The coldness in her voice, the entitlement—it was too much. I shook her hand off when she reached out to push me inside.

“Naomi,” I said firmly, “why don’t you tell them who really owns this place?”

……