On My 30th Birthday, a Message from Future Me Said: He's Cheating

So all these years, that coat just hung there.

Never washed, never touched. I was afraid it would wear out faster if I did.

Inside the pocket was a shopping receipt. From the luxury counter at the downtown department store.

Dated yesterday.

My mind went blank.

The lights were off. I stood hidden in the dark.

Rain caught the glow of the streetlamps, and a car idled at the far corner of the complex gate.

Tim climbed out, glancing up toward our building, his arm draped around a petite woman.

Near the entrance, they stopped.

She pressed a kiss to his chin. He didn't pull away. He even dipped his head a little.

The thunder outside cracked like it had split open my skull. My knees nearly buckled.

There was an unread message on my phone.

【It's 2 a.m. He should be back by now.

Did you see?】

Tim really was drunk. When he opened the door and saw me, he blinked, confused.

“Muriel? You're still up? Why didn't you come let me in?”

I watched him struggle against the shoe cabinet, still remembering not to make me angry, trying to change his shoes before stepping inside.

My fingers clenched, then loosened. I couldn't stop myself from going over and steadying him.

He fumbled through his bag with clumsy hands, then pulled something out with a grin.

“Ta-da! Birthday present for my wife!

Happy birthday, Mrs. Armstrong. You think I'd forget?”

In his hand was a small square box. Inside it, a music box.

I smiled, but my eyes stung so badly I could barely make out his face.

“Babe, why don't you look happy?”

He forced his eyelids open, squinting hard at me, but more and more of his weight sagged against my body.

I ducked my head and hauled him toward the couch, and the tears I'd been holding back broke free, hitting the clean floor in dark wet splotches.

I sniffed and tried to sound casual：

“How'd the work dinner go tonight? How'd you get home?”

“Babe, project's going great. Hic. A coworker called me a car.”

I stared at him for a long time. Every ounce of it was scrutiny.

They say a drunk man speaks with an honest tongue. I asked one last question：

“Tim. Have you ever lied to me?”

He grinned, tightened his arms around my waist, and laughed with something almost boyish in it.

“A wife's meant to be cherished, not lied to……”

His voice trailed off, quieter and quieter.

His eyes were shut. He was out cold.

The smear of lipstick on his chin was impossible to miss.

His phone slipped from his pocket onto the couch cushion, the screen flashing to life.

【Did you get home? Are you asleep yet? Thank you, I had such a great time today】

I picked up his phone.

The passcode was my birthday. He'd never changed it.

【Thanks for the bag, my sister loves it, you really shouldn't have spent so much】

His reply was right below.

【No big deal. Your senior pulls in twenty grand a month, this is nothing.

Besides, look whose little sister's birthday it is. How could I be cheap about that?】

I remembered the price tag on that bag. I'd admired it myself.

But four thousand dollars saved would've covered almost another square foot of our apartment.

Tim wouldn't have had to work himself so hard, and we could've moved into our own place sooner.

But I never imagined.

A coworker's sister had a birthday, and he could toss four thousand dollars at a designer bag without blinking, could fake a work dinner to be out all night.

While I sat home alone boiling plain noodles, too frugal to crack an egg into the pot.

What I really never imagined:

The salary he'd told me was just over five thousand a month was actually more than four times that.

My hands were shaking.

I couldn't make them stop. Finally I bit down hard on my own wrist.

I kept scrolling.

There were so many messages, packed tight together. Big things like project questions and answers, small things like complaining the cafeteria food was terrible, a stray cat outside the office was so pitiful, the clouds looked beautiful today.