Receiving Confirmation

My heart was pounding in my ear and throbbing in my chest. What I was reading before me was the proof my intuition was so desperately seeking yet had eluded me for years. My brain wasn’t sure whether to cry, scream, or laugh. Was I reading this right? Did my eyes miss a word? Was it spam? I had logged into my husband’s computer to retrieve a code from his email in order to set up an app on our living room TV. He was at work and wasn’t responding to my text message asking for the code. It was sure to expire soon, but then I remembered I could access his email myself. He had told me the code to log into his computer a couple of weeks ago when I needed something else from his email. So I would assume most people who don’t want information to be discovered would realize to use a different email address, not one their so-called beloved spouse has access to. 

Yet here I am, staring at his computer screen, re-reading this email he received this morning. Someone named Claire was telling him she missed him and couldn’t wait to see him this Saturday. He never mentioned a friend named Claire in the 13 years we have been married, and I can’t recall ever hearing that name before. Plus, he is working this Saturday, so when would he even be free to meet her since he works until 5 pm? I want to search his inbox and deleted folder for the email address she sent this from, but my hands won’t stop shaking enough to press the keys. Instead, I pick up my cell phone, tap the message icon, and tap his name. 

Using speak-to-text, I tell my phone, “Are you on lunch? I need you to call me right now,” and hit send. 

He hasn’t responded to my messages for the past hour, but he's been very busy at work. Every night he comes home exhausted and doesn’t say much. He assures me he just wants to go to sleep after being on his feet and running around all day at work. My quickly emerging questions and thoughts, looking for an explanation, are interrupted by the harsh vibration of my phone. 

It’s a text from my husband Kyle: “I just finished eating but was going to take a quick nap before I need to head back in. Can it wait until later?” 

Part of me immediately gets enraged. I can count the number of times I have asked him to call me as soon as possible on one hand. This should concern him, yet he is responding like it's nothing. I want to call him and start screaming, but a voice inside tells me to play it cool. He wants to play games; deep down, we've known something wasn’t right, and now it's my time to take control. I am not entirely sure where this determination is coming from, but I yield to its power. I begrudgingly hit the auto-response: “sure.” 

After five minutes of nothing from him, I realize he isn’t going to say anything further. I sit back in the desk chair, feeling like all the air has left my body. Before I know it, I am trembling from head to toe. A sound comes from deep within, between the shaking and the tears streaming down my face. I don't know how much time has passed when my eyes stop pouring out and my body loses the ability to move on its own. I try to sit up from the fetal position my body took on the office room floor. My hands are so sore, and I look down to see my nails have imprinted into my palms, mixed with carpet fibers pulled out in my rage. My throat is inflamed, so I try to look around for my glass of water, only to see I knocked it over on my way down. Once my feeble body is up, I begin to drag myself to the kitchen to attempt to replenish the fluids I have lost. 

At the kitchen sink, I stare out the window into our backyard, waiting for something to tell me what to do. Glass after glass of water doesn’t seem to dent the pounding in my head or the fire in my throat. I figure I should make some tea with honey when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I don’t remember picking it up, although I am surprised I didn’t throw it either. The name on the screen brings everything back to the surface. I try to answer quickly, but my body doesn't follow my brain’s instructions. Finally, I hear the voice that brings forth the tears I thought were all cried out. 

“Hey, lady! How’s your day going?” It’s my sister June who calls every couple of days so we can touch base and vent about the chaos of motherhood. 

Instead of my witty salutation, all I can offer her are sobs. 

“Rachel? What’s wrong?” 

Still, I can't find any words to respond. 

“That’s it, I’m coming over.” 

The line disconnects before I can make another sound. What is happening? What is wrong with me? Now my sister is going to get involved before I even had the chance to speak to Kyle. 

I know I need more information, so I start heading back toward the office when the front door flings open, revealing my sister, ready to fight and console at once. 

“What in the actual hell is going on? Are you hurt? Are the kids okay?” 

Since words are apparently still escaping me, all I can do is nod and gesture to assure her I am okay. But the voice in my head immediately disagrees. I keep walking toward the office, and I hear her following me, firing questions in my direction that she hasn’t realized I cannot answer. 

On his computer screen is the email that took my power, so I point and let her try to figure out what I struggle to communicate. Right on cue, 

“Who the fuck is Claire?” 

My shoulders answer with a shrug. She turns me to face her, and I finally choke out, “I think he is having an affair.” 

The looks that cross her face, harsh yet swift, mirror everything inside me.

 “Have you found any others?” 

I shake my head and show her my phone where I texted Kyle. 

“Are you kidding me? Ugh, that’s it, let’s get to work." 

After going through email after email and trying to get into his social media accounts, we've made no progress answering the millions of questions bombarding our brains. 

“Crap! I didn’t realize what time it was. I have to go pick up the kids. Wait, do you need me to get your kids? Actually, don’t bother answering; of course I will. You need to get Kyle home asap and let me know if you need me to keep the kids tonight.” 

She squeezes me and rushes out the door. If I can barely get words out for her, I truly don’t know how I am supposed to get anywhere with him. I look around the office, desperate for a signal as to what I am expected to do now. The senses covering my body are dulled yet heightened almost to an otherworldly degree. Something inside is trying to get my attention, and my brain is working hard to shut it down. My body seems to listen to my brain as I realize I am still standing, so I make my way to the kitchen to clean up. 

I haven’t eaten since clearing the breakfast plates earlier of the scraps left behind by the kids. There doesn’t seem to be any desire to make food or chew still, so I head to the bedroom to see what my body wills me to do next. Stepping through the doorframe sends a blinding punch to my stomach when I gaze at our bed. Until now, I didn’t realize there was anger like none I'd ever experienced, patiently waiting beneath the anguish. Before my consciousness could register, my feet had carried me to our dresser, where my hands pulled out his pants, underwear, and shirts. Flinging them this way and that was only somewhat cathartic until a shirt caught on the corner of the dresser drawer and began to rip. I froze, confusion and anger coursing through my veins. My head was pounding in a new way now. 

A surge flowed from the pit of my stomach out my mouth, and I yanked harder, shredding the shirt in half. That was all it took for my control to clock completely out. Watches, picture frames, cuff links, cologne bottles; nothing was safe. I stepped back and sat on the bed when my arms could no longer hold themselves. Then, without any warning, I started to laugh. A full belly and unfiltered laughter sprang from my throat as I looked around to survey the carnage. 

“Rachel, what the hell happened?” 

He was home. I must not have heard his truck pull up or the front door open over my reaction to his deceit. I slowly turned my body to face him. A tingling sensation crept over my body from the fear, hate, and love this man triggered. This moment was one I would never forget, yet it could also shape how this all played out. It was too late to play it cool. The glass crunching under his feet as he cautiously approached reminded me of the game I was supposed to be playing, but had clearly lost. 

“You’re lying,” was all I could muster, and it felt perfectly succinct. 

Not understanding what was happening, he responded, “What?” 

“YOU ARE LYING TO ME!” 

The power with which I flung those words at him surprised even me. Was it my tone that was draining the color from his face, or something else? As he started to stammer, I pushed past him toward the office, where his computer would put this all to rest. He quickly followed, yelling my name, but nothing was going to stop me now. 

I had questioned things throughout our relationship and was always met with a lack of evidence coupled with reassuring affection. I had doubted myself time after time and blamed my past for making me paranoid. We had blissful months where everything felt as normal as could be. Then his affection slowly pulled away, and even then he always offered a reason to dispel my doubts. 

I reached down for the mouse to bring the screen back to life. This time would be different. What could he possibly say or do that would nullify this? The screen woke back up, and I impatiently pounded the pin into the keyboard to secure access to his precious hidden life. When the login screen faded, the inbox that had shown Claire’s email appeared without it. I scrolled through the inbox frantically trying to figure out where it could have gone. Did my sister accidentally delete it? I quickly scrolled to the trash and clicked the icon, but the website loaded an empty page. Not one single email was in his trash. 

I looked over the top of the computer screen and saw his face, mixed with fear and something matching secretive satisfaction. Then the voice came forth again; he deleted it. It was gone. It was why we couldn't find anything earlier. At what point had he realized it was there? Yet why didn’t he make any attempts during the day to contact me? To give me a dose of the false affection and reassurance he was so adept at convincing me with. 

As the same questions that have been circling my brain made their way around again, I realized that this had been my life for 13 years. Never truly feeling secure or loved. The man I told myself he was, with the limited examples of honesty, kindness, or attention, was not who he was when he walked out that door. How many more years was I willing to give myself to someone who was indifferent to my messages asking to speak to him? How many more times was I going to put my heart through wondering if his extra 15 minutes to get home was because of traffic? Still, why would I want to do that? Did I deserve this type of relationship? 

Before I could comprehend what was happening, that voice that pushed me to be cool and move forward today took control again and forced words from my lips I never imagined I would need or want to say in my marriage: “I want a divorce.”