The notes Oliver gave me were always just one word long. When we first got married, I lost my temper and asked him to change, but Oliver always pushed back, saying, “My cell phone is full of company messages, so it’s inconvenient.” He added, “Lisa is the best to me and would never make things difficult for me.” I can’t recall if I eventually grew tired of being rejected or if I simply forgot, but I never brought it up again.
Today, “Anna Morgan” is the only name in his favorites in his phone. I clicked on it, and thousands of messages flooded the screen. Sister-in-law, sister, ex-wife, mistress… My title changed as Oliver’s affection for Anna grew. She claimed that the mistress is the one who is not loved. Oliver catered to her, saying, “It’s all time’s fault. We should have met much earlier.” I suppressed my racing heart, my fingertips lingering on the messages from the day of the car accident.
At midnight, Anna urged him, “Oli, when are we going to take our wedding photos?” Oliver replied simply, “Now.” He stayed out all night, and when he didn’t answer my calls or reply to my texts, worry gnawed at me, keeping me awake.