No Place to Go

Work got worse for me, because I got worse. There was a rain cloud hovering over me, and I couldn't get out from under it. Looking back, I wonder now if I had postpartum depression; it might help to further explain my mood and behavior, but it still would not excuse it. After my mother's death, I was useless, and then I was fired. This did not happen when you think it did; that was the second lie.

With Jennifer's daycare paid up for almost a month, I took the time to try to recenter. I visited museums and galleries, trying to reconnect with the memory of my mother, and with the young, beautiful women that I used to be, the one that could dance between raindrops. And that's where I met Jeremy.

Jeremy? Who the fuck was Jeremy? I wracked my brain, trying to think if I'd ever met the man, ever heard his name. I came up with nothing.

He was a little older than us, only a year or two. He was a handsome man, but that's not what drew me to him. It was the way he was looking at the same art that I was, like he was searching for something at the same time and in the same places. I found myself in three different galleries with him before he introduced himself. He was an artist, like my mother. And he was lost, like myself.

Jeremy was the last scion of a wealthy family, the black sheep before he was alone. He had expected to inherit little, but his parents and older brother had been killed in a private plane crash earlier that year. When that happened, he was suddenly thrust into a situation he was completely unprepared for. He had his own small house and had been receiving an allowance, but he now had to contend with the wealth of generations, along with the men who had been hired to help him manage it.

He wanted nothing to do with the money or the mansion. He had rejected it for a reason, albeit rejecting it in a way that let him be an artist without starving. Jeremy was aware of the hypocrisy, but now he wanted to give as much of his family's wealth away as possible. Unfortunately, the people managing it were standing in his way, because their careers rested on their fees, and those fees were commensurate with the amount of wealth generated.

I didn't learn this at first. We simply met and talked about art. But I told him about my problems, and he told me about his. I didn't have a solution for his larger issue, but I recognized the core problem: he was an artist, and he thought like one. It made him unable to effectively deal with a lot of the real world. Most artists muddle their way through; the realities of everyday life can be very instructive. But he was also raised wealthy without having absorbed any knowledge of what was necessary to simply survive in the real world, without access to maids, valets, assistants, and the other servants he'd grown up with.

Part of why I so valued the stability that you gave me, Kurt, was that I had to be an adult when I was a child. Bills sometimes would go unpaid if I didn't take care of it. My parents would fail to go to the doctor or miss other important appointments. I was, in essence, their personal assistant by the time I was twelve. I was freed from that responsibility when I was eighteen and leaned into my newfound freedom during my college years. It wasn't until I met you that I realized that I could have freedom and stability, that you could supply me with the latter while I taught you how to be free to feel.

Jeremy presented the opposite issue. He could feel only too well, but he was unable to take care of himself. He needed someone to provide stability for him. So, slowly, I talked with him about how to organize his household, the directions he should look in for different people to manage his money, ways to set up systems that would let him meet his responsibilities without letting them overwhelm him. He insisted that I be paid. I told him my previous salary and he balked at that, instead giving me twice my pay under the table.

That was the first year that I did our taxes instead of you. Working with Jeremy made me flex long forgotten muscles, and I learned the simple joy that could be found in responsibility, in making sure that things got done without needing outside help. I had confused the overwhelming feelings of a teenager trying to manage the household of two irresponsible parents with the way it might feel to take care of myself and my family.

That was partly why I took over that duty. The other was that I wasn't ready to tell you about him yet. Not because I was ashamed per se; I was ashamed that I'd been fired, and that I had waited so long to tell you. The longer I waited, the greater that shame became. And then I'd have to explain how we were still able to stay afloat financially, which meant you'd know I'd hid something else from you, and it turned into a shame spiral. There was no good way out except to come clean, which I just couldn't bring myself to do.

I took over balancing our checkbook then as well, if you'll remember. Jeremy paid me in cash, so I made deposits into our account for the proper amount from my old job; then I told you I got a raise and added some more. It took a lot of the edge off our situation, and it freed you up a little to give more time and affection to both me and Jennifer. The means were wrong, but the ends were well worth it. We were all happy.

And Jeremy was happy as well. I'm fairly certain that he was what's called neurodivergent these days; he had ADHD or autism or both, albeit undiagnosed. He could make beautiful kinetic sculptures, but he couldn't keep his house clean. He could remember minute trivia about things that he loved, but not what day he was supposed to pay his bills. On the flip side, when his house was clean, he could focus better. I got a maid in for him, and his productivity shot up. I helped him organize and stick to his schedule, and he became happier. I was his personal assistant without a title, and it was the best I'd ever felt about a job.

We became closer; not yet in any physical way, but an emotional attachment was forged. He helped me get through both my mother's death and my resentment towards her, which, I'm sorry to say, you simply weren't equipped to do at the time. You were a loving man, but that love didn't translate into the emotional depth necessary for such a complex task.

I helped him deal with his contentious relationship with his deceased family as well. That was easier; being an outcast for so long left him with few warm feelings for them, and he despised their wealth and the way they used it to crush others.

I started to stay late some nights to help him scope out a new project he wanted to work on, or to spitball ideas with him; I inherited no artistic talent from my parents, but I understood the logistics involved better than anyone else he knew. I could tell him what was and was not likely to work from a purely physical standpoint and gave him accurate estimates of how long a project would take. As we grew closer, I grew more accurate in these estimates.

Eventually, our relationship became physical. It wasn't due to any blow up between you and I; we were doing as well as ever at that point. It wasn't spurred by any big event in his life, either. We were simply working late one night, and he kissed me. It was unexpected, but I knew that my friendship had blossomed into love before this; I felt guilt for breaking my vows to you, but a physical relationship was simply an expression of the love I had for him. He was already a secret from you, and perhaps that made it easier to cross the lines that blurred employer and friend and lover. I told myself I wasn't taking anything away from you.

That was a lie, of course. I felt that I was owed this, that I supported two men in different ways, and raised the children of one of them. It was prideful and selfish, but it was what I allowed myself to think. I worked late and on the weekends sometimes, spending time mostly doing my job, but sometimes with Jeremy in a more intimate sense. I wanted to believe

I looked down at the wastebasket next to me, finally understanding why it was there. Marcus hadn't put it beside me for the envelope or letter. My stomach lurched, and I took deep breaths to steady myself. Lynn, the love of my life, mother to my children, had cheated on me. Not just once, but many times, over the course of what sounded like years. I tried to force my gorge back down.

Marcus looked on in sympathy. He knew there was nothing he could do to ease what I was feeling, even if I had "completed the initial set of instructions." I still wasn't completely sure why he was here, but I was beginning to suspect it was at least partially to keep me from doing something stupid. Good fucking luck with that. I was going to murder this Jeremy asshole, and some sixty year old lawyer wasn't going to slow me down.

The world slowly stopped spinning. I returned to the letter, hoping that the worst was over, but knowing that it probably wasn't.

That was a lie, of course. I felt that I was owed this, that I supported two men in different ways, and raised the children of one of them. It was prideful and selfish, but it was what I allowed myself to think. I worked late and on the weekends sometimes, spending time mostly doing my job, but sometimes with Jeremy in a more intimate sense. I wanted to believe that what I was doing was good for all of us: Jeremy got the help and love he had been missing, I was able to relearn the skills and attitude to be a better partner for you, and you felt less pressure both to help me cope with my issues and to provide for the family. That's what I told myself to stave off the guilt that I knew I should feel more acutely.

I know that you will have many questions, but I will not answer any relating to sex with Jeremy. I will not offer details about my time with him; there is no way to do so that will actually help you. I will merely say this: if I had to pick a lover for the rest of my life, it would be you, every single time, without any doubt in my mind. You are the best lover I have ever had; what I had with Jeremy was merely a way for us to feel closer to each other.

Over the next five years

Jesus. Jesus fuck. Five years. Five--

I stood unsteadily. "What... why why did you--" I started to rage. "I-- I fucking loved her. Why-- why did you--" I wanted to grab that smarmy fuck by the lapels and shake him until his head fell off. I was going to be sick, but I wasn't going to give this sadist the satisfaction of vomiting into a fucking waste basket. He started to stand, but a glare from me told him what a bad idea that would be.

I staggered to the nearby guest bathroom and emptied my stomach into the toilet, then flushed my lunch and a couple hundred dollars of whiskey down the drain. Tears were running down my face, both from the vomiting and because my heart was being broken in a new and awful way. I thought that after the last month, I had run out of tears to cry. I was wrong.

After washing my face and rinsing my mouth out for about ten minutes, I took a deep breath and went back to face my tormentor. He was still in the same place, an unhappy look on his face. I stood behind my chair, bracing myself with my hands on the top of the backrest. "Why."

He opened his mouth to speak and I interrupted. "If you say a fucking thing about your instructions, I'm going to call 911."

I could almost hear his teeth grind together. "Kurt, this is far from the first time that I've been threatened. But--" He looked to one side. "It is, perhaps, the first time I've felt it was justified. I want to answer your questions, believe me. But I can't yet. It does have to do with the instructions, but that's because only after you read the letter will I be able to give you the answers you seek with the context they require."

I snorted, "Jesus! Fucking lawyers. What the fuck does that even mean?"

Deveraux sighed. "How far into the letter have you gotten?"

"Well, I just found out my wife fucked some rich asshole artist for five years, so how far is that?"

Ignoring my question, he riposted with one of his own. "If I had asked you how well your wife knew Jeremy before you read that letter, what would you have said?"

My fingers tensed on the back of the chair. I wanted to snap it off and shove it down his throat. He watched me for a moment, sympathetic but perhaps a little superior, then said, "I am not your enemy here, Kurt. I understand why you think I am. I promise you, I want only what is in you and your family's best interests. That's why I'm telling you to read the whole letter before asking any more questions."

Standing up straight, I snapped, "I'm going to get some air." He nodded.

The afternoon was cold and crisp as I stepped outside. I had left my jacket inside, needing to feel the breeze on my skin. I was sweating, and my face was still damp from my earlier ablutions. Leaning over the railing of my front porch, I stared off into the middle distance and tried to get some control over myself.

I wished I'd never met Marcus fucking Deveraux. I wished my wife had died before she could have sent for him, killed in a car crash or sudden organ failure brought on by her cancer. I could have had the illusion that I was loved; but having had that illusion stolen from me, my only chance at peace was to go back in and read that goddamned letter. I hated her, truly hated her for the first time in my life.

Resolute, I returned to my dining room and chair without even a glance at Deveraux.

Over the next five years, I truly became your partner in our household. I was able to contribute financially and emotionally. I was a better mother and wife as I shouldered more of the burdens of our day to day life. Your stress levels dropped, and both our sex life and our quiet times together improved as I became the wife you deserved.

I feel great shame in admitting these things. I should have always been this for you. Failing that, I should have found a way to rediscover myself without going outside the bounds of our marriage. But I didn't. I cannot say that I regret my time with Jeremy, because I do not think I would have managed to be who I needed to be without that time. I sincerely believe that our marriage would not have survived, because I would have grown to resent you for my own weaknesses. That may sound foolish, but I was a fool.

My affair with Jeremy had two endings. The first was after Matt was born. I wanted to rededicate myself to our family and marriage. Jeremy was unhappy, but he understood. This may sound unlikely, but he always respected you; I know that some affair partners deride the spouse, but there was none of that with him.

He knew you were my first and greatest love, and he knew that he was stealing my time from you, even if I wouldn't admit it to myself until later. I spoke of you in glowing terms to him, and he was glad to hear about you and our family. He encouraged me to do what was best for us; he loved me enough to let me go when it was time.

I helped him locate a new personal assistant, a young man named Alan. He was probably more competent in his way than I was, with a background in finance. I know that he was able to help Jeremy sort out the financial tangle of his family's fortune far better than I was. Jeremy and I stayed in touch, but at a distance. I didn't want to risk you finding out about my affair after it was already over, so we talked only rarely.

By that time, your business had taken off, so I told you, finally, that I had been fired; we could afford to have me stay at home and watch the children. I did that for the next two years, until I heard from Jeremy that he needed my help once more. At first, I was going to turn down his request; I still cared for him, but I wouldn't further jeopardize our marriage.

Then he told me that he had cancer. My world was suddenly turned upside down. I still loved him, albeit in a much more muted sense. If he had only ever been my friend, I would have helped him; but he had been my lover as well, and the man that helped me become the woman I needed to be. I couldn't deny that request. That's when I asked you to let me put the kids in daycare for three days a week; Matt was about a year old then. I told you that I wanted to help out at a charity.

This was not entirely a lie. Alan had helped Jeremy funnel money into a charity to fund grants for needy artists. But mostly I was there to help Jeremy through the last of his days. The cancer had been caught too late, and he was dying. There were treatments, but their chance of success was so low and his quality of life would have been so poor that he chose to forego them. I was mostly his friend and caregiver, but he wanted to make love a few times. I couldn't deny him. It was something that would ease his pain and let him know that we would be loved and remembered after he was gone.

He managed to survive six months, but the last two were in hospice. I saw him only a few times, but I was there when he died. He held my hand and told me that I was the love of his life; he knew that he was not the love of mine, and I didn't lie to him. But I did let him know that I loved him and would miss him. Then he closed his eyes. Less than an hour later, he was gone.

You may remember that I had a difficult time in my second trimester with Paula. I was moody and angry at times, lashing out at you. I am sorry for that; you treated me like a queen, as you always did. I let you believe that it was hormones, and part of it probably was; but I was mostly mourning the death of my friend and had no one I could share my grief with. I am sorry.

I am sorry for so many things.

I had no other lovers before or after him. Everything in my life outside of that period was an open book to you. I lied at times to conceal what I had done during those years, but only about that. After Jeremy's death, and even in the years between my two affairs with him, I was dedicated solely to you and our family. This is, I am sure, of little comfort. I should have been faithful throughout those years as well. But I was not.

I regret that I have hurt you by telling you this. I was prepared to take this secret to my grave. My reasons were both selfless and selfish. You deserve only happiness. I have no doubt that, had I lived to be one hundred, I would not have strayed again. If I told you of my infidelity, I know you would divorce me, and you would have every right to. But it would not make you happy; I don't know that you would have ever been able to trust or love again. I don't know that you will after reading this.

And I loved you. To the end of my life, I loved you. What I did in the past does not sound like the actions of a loving spouse, but at the time I convinced myself that it was. It was not, and I am sorry. But just as I couldn't stand hurting you, I couldn't stand losing you, so I never told you. I would never have told you, had it not been for two things.

The first is that the type of cancer that claimed Jeremy's life is the same that I have. It is not a common type of cancer but also not rare, so this is not too much of a surprise. But it has a genetic component, a vulnerability that comes about due to an abnormality. Having a copy of the gene from one parent makes it slightly more likely that a person will fall prey to it. Having copies from both parents significantly increases the chances, and also makes onset in young adulthood much more common.

I do not know if Jeremy had one or both copies of the gene; I expect he did, both because he died so young and because his family tree included a number of early deaths by afflictions that sound like cancer. I know that I carry one copy.

I know that I have hurt you so badly with this confession. I am afraid that what comes next will hurt most of all.

There is a high chance that Matt is not your biological son, and a smaller but non-negligible chance that Paula is not your biological daughter. And if they both carry these genes, they are at significant risk of an early death.