The Dead Husband Who Never Died

On Thanksgiving, I saw a post on Reddit.

"What's the most romantic thing your partner has ever done for you?"

The comments section flooded, with users sharing intimate stories from their love lives.

Some said it was a bowl of hot soup at three in the morning; others said it was their partner quitting a ten-year smoking habit.

A wave of memory washed over me, and I found myself typing out a comment: "He would drive across the entire city just for my favorite pumpkin pie. Even with a hurricane warning in effect, he'd still go, waiting all night in the storm if he had to."

The moment I hit send, I could almost see those deep, blue eyes again.

However, I hadn't finished my story.

My love had died in a car crash during a storm seven years ago, on his way to buy me that pie.

The familiar ache tore through my chest anew.

With red-rimmed eyes, I was about to close the page when someone replied to my post.

"What a coincidence. For me, the most romantic thing happened on Thanksgiving seven years ago. My boyfriend's wife was craving pumpkin pie, so he secretly came over to my place."

"While he was in the shower, I sent his wife a message, telling her he'd died in an accident."

"When he found out, he played along. He staged a car crash and faked his own death, fooling his wife for seven whole years, haha."

"The day his wife's grief drove her into a mental hospital, he was on one knee, proposing to me."

After that, she posted a photo of them, taken from behind.

My eyes were glued to the screen.

The man in the photo was my husband, Shane Miller. The same husband who'd been dead for seven years.

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1

The thread went viral almost instantly.

The comments exploded—some people tore her apart, while others, shockingly, praised her.

"WTF? How is that romantic? That's a crime!"

"You drove someone to a mental breakdown and you're bragging about it? You and that man are both going to hell."

"Can we not be so judgmental based on a few sentences? What if his wife did something terrible first? Like cheating?"

"Exactly. I actually admire her courage for going after what she wants. And she’s not sugarcoating it in the post—just laying it all out."

A fierce debate erupted in the replies.

Reading these comments, I clutched my phone, my nails digging into my palm until the sharp pain was the only thing assuring me this wasn't a nightmare.

Then, a new reply from the original poster popped up.

"Thanks for weighing in, everyone. Obviously I don't care what you think, or I wouldn't have posted this. All's fair in love and war. I'm incredibly happy, pregnant again, and my husband adores me."

"By the way, he's now one of New York's most watched rising tech stars. Smart, charming, rich, and handsome. As for the ex-wife? Who cares."

It was followed by a picture of a pampered hand wearing a massive diamond ring.

I glanced down at my own hands, no longer young, calloused from years of pruning flowers in my shop. The difference between us was night and day.

As if her words weren't enough, she then tagged Shane Miller in the thread.

Soon, Shane Miller himself replied.

"My apologies. My wife is young and a little impulsive. Sorry for the drama."

The original poster quickly shot back: "Don't say that! I just wanted to share how happy we are."

"Wow, they seem so in love. Must be the real deal."

"Looking at how this couple acts, they don't seem like such vicious people. There must be more to this story."

"And the ex-wife can't even tell if her own husband is dead or alive? She must be a real piece of work."

"Sir, did you ever contact your ex-wife after you faked your death? How is she doing now?"

Shane Miller went silent. The replies stopped.

I gripped my phone, my gaze hot enough to burn a hole through the screen.

The rage of betrayal was a fire scorching my sanity, while an icy numbness spread through my heart.

Just then, an Instagram notification flashed on my screen.

"Are you doing okay?"

I froze.

This unfamiliar Instagram account had been messaging me for three years. Every New Year's and Thanksgiving, it would send the same message:

"Happy holidays. I hope you're happy every day."

I'd always assumed it was some kind-hearted stranger, or maybe a student my father had once sponsored. Each time, I'd politely reply, "Thank you."

They would always show "is typing..." for a long time, only to send back a clipped, "You're welcome."

It was only today that I clicked on the account's profile and saw he'd changed his profile picture five minutes ago—it was now identical to Shane Miller's on Reddit.

I stared at the profile picture and suddenly, a laugh escaped me. It was a broken sound, and as I laughed, tears began to fall, hitting the screen one by one.

The seventh year of his fake death. The seventh year of my unbearable pain.

After deceiving me for so long, what was this? Some kind of check-in?

I blocked the account, wiped my tears, and reopened the thread.

"Thank you for all the replies."

"Sorry, but I'm that 'evil and stupid' ex-wife."