I never realized that a cactus in a pot could have such a big effect on my life. It did, though. And not just in a “life is strange” way. This was true, no. For real. My husband shattered his favorite cactus, which he called “The General,” on the floor of our bedroom. This ruined the fantasy of our marriage.
It all started on a quiet Saturday morning. The warm light from spring entered into our apartment and made everything look golden. John had gone on a month-long business trip to New York two days before. At least that’s what he said.
I had the home to myself, so I moved some furniture around, something I had been wanting to do for months. John, who was always a traditionalist, hated change. He liked our house the way it was. His favorite thing was the row of cacti that lived like tiny warriors on the windowsill of his bedroom.
Over the years, he had been collecting them. You may water them, turn them, and even talk to them. But “The General,” a large, spiky plant in a thick clay container, was the most loved. When he wasn’t around, he wrote me notes advising me what to do with it. And I rolled my eyes every time. Who gets so close to a cactus?
That morning, I found out that the cacti would now be directly above the drawers while I was trying to move our old dresser across the room. Risky. If I pull the incorrect way, I might hit a needle. I decided to transfer them.
The smaller ones were easy enough. But I did think about it when I went to The General. I pulled off my gloves and lifted it with both hands. It was heavier than I remembered, which was unusual.
I could see our wedding picture from halfway across the room. We looked so young and in love in that picture. But lately, the spark had gone out. John had grown distant. Not paying attention. But I believed it was simply work stress and not having enough time.
I was feeling sad and happy at the same time, so I didn’t see the edge of the rug under my foot. I fell. The pot toppled down. The general fell down.
It sounded like a gunshot when the clay broke.
The cactus didn’t come to mind right away; John did. What he would do. The look on his face when he came back and saw that his beloved cactus had died. I could tell he was upset already.
I picked up a dustpan and started to brush away the dirt when I saw something shiny. A small metal key is buried under some dirt. Strange. Why is there a key in the pot?
I picked it up because I wanted to know what it was. It was little, like a mailbox or a small lockbox. And that was definitely not trash.
Then, something else. A plastic bag that is buried deeper in the ground. There is a black USB flash drive inside. My hands were cold. Why was this in the same container as the cactus?
I found something else as I looked through the rest of the dirt. A small box made of metal with rust on the edges. The little keyhole was a perfect fit for the key. My heart raced.
I gave it some thinking. John certainly didn’t want me to find this. But who puts things in cacti?
I put in the key.
Inside the box was a faded picture of a woman and a baby. He had never met the woman before. She had dark hair, bright eyes, and a lovely smile that made her look melancholy. The baby fell asleep on her chest. On the reverse of the picture, a woman wrote, “Sarah and David.” Always with each other. June 10, 2009.
My stomach turned. Who were they?
I took the USB drive into the living room and inserted it into the laptop. It opened right away. Folders. A lot of them. I clicked on one.
PDFs. A scan of David Miller’s passport. Birthdate: June 10, 2009.
Then came the birth certificate. Sarah Miller is the mother. Father’s name is John Anderson.
My husband.
My brain was spinning. A boy? A woman named Sarah? A child he never mentioned to me?
Then I found the license to get married. On May 15, 2009, John Anderson and Sarah Miller tied the knot. Four months before John and I met for the first time.
More papers. Insurance policies, real estate documents, and money transfers were all part of John’s existence. A life that didn’t include me.
I opened a folder that had a lot of photographs in it. There he was. My John. With Sarah. With David. On the beach. At birthday gatherings. Putting the Christmas gifts in their living room.
Every picture made me feel bad.
I saw a video. John stared straight into the camera. He went on, “Sarah, if you’re seeing this, something has gone wrong.” “I love you and Davey more than anything else in the world.”
There were more videos available. Some are full of love. Some are hard to understand and make you think of danger. Agreements with other countries. Bank accounts that are hard to find. There are different passports, all with John’s image but different names.
Was he a horrible person? A crook? A spy? I had a lot of things on my mind. There were no answers from any of them.
Then there was the newest video, which was only three weeks old. John said, “Sarah, I’ll be in Miami for a few days longer than I thought I would be.” Please give Davey a hug for me.
He did say he was in Chicago, though.
I went through the rest of the drive. Lease agreements, financial statements, and company paperwork all pointed to a second life. A second set of family. Another name.
And I was the fool who didn’t see it coming.
I could feel tears coming. Anger, despair, and betrayal were all swirling around in me like a storm. It wasn’t just my heart that was broken. I was hurt.
What kind of person had I been to him? A tale to write about? A second plan?
I tried to get in touch with John. Voicemail. I tried again. Not a thing.
I needed to know the truth. All of it.
I searched online for Sarah Miller. She had covered her social media profiles, but one profile image showed that it was the same woman. I glanced through what I could see. Images of a teenage kid that looked just like John. “Happy birthday to my wonderful husband” was my Facebook post last week.
He was there with them that day. Not for work. With them.
That night, I rarely slept. I cried until I couldn’t cry any more. But I got more stiff in the morning. I was done being silent.
I packed a small bag and rode the first train to Boston. There was an address for Sarah on one of the sheets. Apartment 42 on Academic Street.
My pulse raced as I stood in front of her door.
No response.
An old neighbor stopped by and looked at me like they didn’t trust me. “Are you looking for Sarah?” she said.
I answered, “Yes.”
She answered, “They are at their cabin for the weekend.” “Not coming back until Monday.”
Just my luck.
But the neighbor provided me a phone number, maybe because they knew how much it meant to me. She said, “Just in case.”
I said thank you and headed out onto the sidewalk. The sun was warm and beamed on the street, making me feel bad inside. I walked to a nearby cafe and sat down with my lunch, which I hadn’t eaten yet.
After that, I made a choice.
I’d call Sarah.
Not to fault. No yelling. To talk. Woman to woman. Wife to… wife?
I looked at her number and put my thumb over the call button.
But I knew this had to happen in person.
And I was ready to wait.
It all started with a crash. On the bedroom floor, a pot breaks. My spouse, John, called the cactus “The General” with love. It was lying on its side, with its thick, thorny arms hanging in a pile of dirt.
I thought it would be easy to clean up, but it turned out to be the end of everything.
As I bent down to pick up the dirt, I saw something shining and metal in the sun. A little key. Strange. I noticed a plastic bag with a USB flash drive in it next. It was closed and had dirt on it. There was a metal box with rust marks on it near the bottom of the broken pot. It was about the same size as a pack of matches.
I unlocked it with the key, my hands shaking. There was a picture from long ago inside. A woman I had never seen before had black hair and gentle eyes. She was holding a sleeping child to her bosom. On the back, it says: Sarah and David. Always together. 10th of June, 2009.
My heart stopped. Who were they? And why did they hide them in the thing my spouse loved the most?
I used the flash drive on our home computer to look for answers. What I found changed all I thought I knew.
John had a second family.
There were marriage licenses for a woman named Sarah Miller, birth records for a child named David, passports, insurance policies, and bank accounts that I didn’t know about. Photos and videos of happy, intimate family experiences… But I wasn’t the woman. And the child? He was just like John.
The videos that John made for Sarah were a lot frightening. “Something went wrong if you see this.” He talked about risk, insurance, contracts with people from foreign nations, and the need to stay hidden. Every word felt like a stone in my chest.
And then, the last blow: a video from last month. John was in a hotel room telling Sarah that he was “delayed in Miami.” But he told me he was in Chicago.
Not all of the lies were about the past. They were still going on.
At first, I didn’t cry. I sat there, paralyzed, staring at the television as if it might alter. But it finally hit me: my spouse had two names, two homes, and two families.
How could I have missed it?
He was often traveling for work, and he was always a little emotionally distant. I believed it was because he was stressed out from working so hard. But now I could see everything well. Many 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 peaceful mornings we spent together drinking coffee. He had been in love with another woman and had a son that I didn’t know about the whole time.
I needed to learn more. I had 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 no one answered when I knocked on the door of flat 42.
A pleasant but curious 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 had come this far… But I still didn’t know what to do.
But fate offered me something else.
The neighbor might have noticed that I was angry and gave me Sarah’s phone number.
I gazed at the number for hours. Should I call her? What would I say? “Hi, 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 at a small café nearby. None of them ended well.
Instead, I called John. Right away, voicemail.
I was stranded between the past that I thought I knew and a future that no longer made sense to me.
But it was clear that I couldn’t keep up the act. I had to keep searching. I needed to know the truth about John, not just about how he betrayed me.
The man I married was more than just a liar.
He could have been a lot more scary.
