My husband went on a business trip to another city for a month, and I decided to move his favorite cactus in a pot to a different spot, but I accidentally broke it while carrying it. My hair stood on end at what I saw inside…

My husband had gone on a business trip to another city for a month, and I decided to move his favorite cactus in a pot to another place, but I accidentally broke it while lifting it. But what I discovered inside the broken pot changed my life forever. How strange it is that our lives can change because of completely random events.

Small, ordinary, almost insignificant things suddenly turn everything upside down, and after that, nothing is ever the same. For me, that turning point was an ordinary cactus. I should probably start my story with that.

It was early Saturday morning. The spring sun flooded our apartment with a soft, golden light. My husband, John, had gone on a business trip to New York for an entire month.

He worked for a large construction company, and such long absences were common. I had gotten used to his being away, though of course, I always missed him. Taking advantage of being alone in the apartment, I decided to do a little rearranging. I had wanted for a long time to change the decor a bit, give it a fresh feel, but John was conservative and preferred everything to stay just the way it was.

He was especially reverent about his cactus collection, which he had been collecting for several years. On the windowsill in our bedroom was a row of prickly plants of various shapes and sizes. John cared for them with a special tenderness—one that he rarely showed me.

Among all this prickly company, one cactus stood out. Large, with fleshy leaves and long, sharp spines. John called it “The General.

This cactus appeared in our home about three years ago, and my husband always treated it with special affection. Even when he was away on business trips, he would leave me detailed instructions on how to care for it. His attachment to that prickly windowsill resident was strange, sure—but I didn’t give it much thought.

People can have all sorts of quirks and passions. That morning, I decided to move the dresser that was against the wall opposite the bed. For several months, I’d been obsessed with the idea that it would look much better next to the window.

Maybe if I moved it now, John would appreciate my efforts when he returned and wouldn’t object to the changes. I pulled the dresser away from the wall and started to slowly push it across the room. It turned out to be harder than I thought.

The huge oak furniture gave in reluctantly to my efforts, but I stubbornly pushed it toward its new destination. Finally, breathing heavily, I set the dresser in its new spot—just where I wanted it.

Right beneath the windowsill with the cacti. Taking a few steps back, I critically examined the result of my work. Yes, that’s much better.

The room instantly felt more harmonious. But something was bothering me: the cacti.

Now they were right above the dresser, and every time I opened the drawers, I risked brushing against those spiny plants. I had to move them. But where to? I looked around for a suitable spot.

I could move them to the living room windowsill, but my violets were already there. There wasn’t room in the kitchen either. After thinking for a while, I decided to place the cacti temporarily on a shelf in the hallway.

The light there wasn’t as good as in the bedroom, but it would only be temporary. When John returned, we’d decide together where to put them. Carefully, trying not to prick myself, I began moving the plants one by one.

The small cacti fit perfectly in the palm of my hand and didn’t give me any trouble. But when it was time for the General, I hesitated. Not only was this cactus the biggest, it was also the sharpest.

On top of that, its clay pot looked quite heavy. First, I put on gardening gloves to protect my hands from the spines. Then I carefully grabbed it from the bottom and lifted it.

It turned out to be much heavier than I expected—as if it wasn’t filled with regular soil, but something denser and heavier. Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, I carried the cactus across the room.

Everything was going fine until my gaze landed on the photograph on the nightstand. Our wedding photo. John and I, so happy and in love, looking at each other tenderly.

That photo always gave me a warm feeling, but lately, it had been mixed with a hint of sadness. Something had changed between us during our six years of marriage. The lightness and honesty with which we used to treat each other had faded.

I was so lost in thought, staring at the photo, that I didn’t notice the edge of the rug I tripped on. The pot slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. The clay cracked, breaking into several large pieces, the soil spilled out in a shapeless heap, and poor General fell over, losing several of his impressive spines.

Oh no, John is going to be furious. I immediately pictured his displeased face, his scolding, maybe even his icy silence—which was always worse than any words. But there was nothing to be done—I had to fix the situation.

I ran to the kitchen to grab a dustpan and brush to collect the scattered soil. When I returned to the bedroom, I knelt at the site of the accident and began carefully sweeping the soil onto the dustpan. And then my eyes landed on something strange among the clumps.

It was a small metallic object that glinted under the morning sunlight. At first, I thought it was just trash that had accidentally ended up in the pot during transplanting. But when I picked it up, I realized it was a key.

A small, neat key, like the kind used for mailboxes or little lockboxes. How did a key end up inside a cactus pot? I turned it over in my hands, puzzled. Maybe John accidentally dropped it in there while repotting the plant? But if that were the case, why didn’t he take it out? I set the key aside and continued gathering the soil.

And then my fingers felt something else. This time, it was a small plastic bag, tightly sealed and caked with dirt. I carefully cleaned it and held it up to the light.

Inside the bag was a USB flash drive. Very ordinary—black, without any identifying marks. What was it doing in the flowerpot? And why had John hidden it there? Questions flooded my mind, but there were no answers.

I placed the bag with the USB stick next to the key and continued sifting through the soil, carefully examining each clump. And my efforts were not in vain. At the very bottom of the pot, I found another object.

A small metal box, a little bigger than a matchbox. It was covered with a fine layer of rust, as if it had been buried for many years. I turned it over in my hands, trying to find a lock.

And sure enough, there was a small keyhole on one side—just the right size for the key I had found. My heart was pounding. What kind of hiding place had my husband set up inside an ordinary cactus pot? What had he been hiding from me all these years? I looked at the little key, then at the box.

Should I open it or not? On the one hand, these were John’s personal belongings, and I had no right to snoop through them without his knowledge. On the other hand, why would he keep something in such a strange place—hidden from me? In our relationship, there had never been secrets. At least, that’s what I thought until now.

After a moment of hesitation, curiosity won. I inserted the key into the lock and carefully turned it. The mechanism clicked, and the lid of the box opened slightly.

I held my breath and opened the lid fully. Inside was a thin piece of paper, neatly rolled up. I gently took it out and unfolded it.

It was an old photograph, yellowed with age, with curled corners. It showed a young woman holding a baby in her arms. The woman smiled at the camera, and the baby, still very young, slept peacefully against her chest.

I had never seen this woman before. She didn’t look like any of John’s relatives that I knew. She had long dark hair, expressive eyes, and a sad, peculiar smile.

Who was she? And why did John keep her photo hidden in such a secret place? I turned the photo over and found an inscription on the back. The faded ink was barely legible, but I managed to read it. Two lines, written in neat, feminine handwriting:

Sarah and David. Together forever. June 10, 2009.

Sarah? Who is Sarah? And David? Is that the name of the baby? But what does this have to do with John? Why had he hidden this photo? I placed the photo back into the box and picked up the USB drive. Now I wanted to know even more what it contained. But for that, I needed a computer.

Leaving the cactus and scattered soil on the floor, I hurried to the living room where our laptop was. My hands were trembling slightly as I turned it on and inserted the USB stick. A window popped up showing the contents of the drive.

Several folders with incomprehensible names. Numbers, letters—no clue about what was inside. I opened the first folder.

Inside were PDF documents. I clicked on the first one, and a scanned passport appeared on the screen. Not mine, and not John’s.

The passport was issued to David Miller. Date of birth: June 10, 2009.

The same day as the one written on the photo. The next document was a birth certificate for the same David. Mother:

Sarah Miller. And the father’s name froze me in place. Father…

John Anderson. My husband.

My vision darkened; the room blurred before my eyes.

How could this be? John has a child. A child he never told me about. And a woman.

This Sarah—who is she to him? I opened more documents mechanically. A marriage certificate between John Anderson and Sarah Miller, dated May 15, 2009.

A purchase agreement for an apartment under both their names. An insurance policy for all three: John, Sarah, and their son David.

It felt like a punch to the gut. John is married? Has another family? A child? How is that possible? After all, we’ve been married for six years. I frantically compared the dates.

He married Sarah in May 2009. And me—in September 2017. So when we got married, he was already married? All these years!

What was I then? A mistress? A second wife? A person without official status? My head was spinning from the flood of information and emotions overwhelming me. But I forced myself to keep examining the contents of the USB.

In the next folder, I found photographs. Dozens—hundreds of photos. And in all of them, there she was.

Sarah. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the child, sometimes…

With John.

Here they were— all three of them—on the beach. Here celebrating a birthday. Here on a Christmas morning at preschool, proud parents filming their child’s performance.

Ordinary family photos. Just like the ones John and I had. Except in these, another woman was in my place.

I didn’t know what to think. How had John managed to live a double life? How had he divided his time between two families? And more importantly—why?

In the third folder, I found videos. I clicked on the first file, and John’s face appeared on the screen.

He was looking directly into the camera, with a guarded expression in his eyes. “If you’re watching this video, Sarah, it means something went wrong,” he began. “I want you to know…”

“I love you and Davey more than anything in the world. Everything I do, I do for you. If anything happens to me, all the necessary documents are in the box.

Bank accounts, real estate, insurance. Everything is in your and our son’s name. You’ll be safe.

I promise.” The video ended, and I stared at the screen, unable to believe what I had just seen or heard. “Love you more than anything in the world.”

And what about me? Where do I fit into this picture of his world? I opened a few more videos. Some showed ordinary family moments: the boy’s birthday, some vacations, home gatherings.

In others, John was again speaking directly to the camera, talking about love affairs, some potential danger, and the need to be cautious. He spoke vaguely, hinted at things, clearly afraid to name them outright.

I searched until the end of the folder and found a video from last month.

Just a few weeks ago. In it, John stood in what looked like a hotel room. “Sarah, I’ll be delayed in Miami for a couple more days,” he said.

Things aren’t going as well as I’d hoped. Give Davey a kiss from me and tell him Dad will be home soon. Miami.

But John told me he was going to Chicago for a business meeting. He lied to me. Still, after everything I had already seen, this particular lie seemed trivial.

I closed the video and leaned back in my chair. My mind was in total chaos. I couldn’t process that the man I had lived with for six years, whom I trusted, whom I loved, had been living a double life all this time.

He was the husband of two women, the father of a child whose existence I had never even suspected. How was this possible? How did he manage to divide his time between us?

I tried to recall how often John had been away. Business trips.

He was constantly away for work. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a week, sometimes for a whole month. I never questioned the need for these trips.

His job required frequent travel, and I accepted it as normal. And now it turns out those business trips—at least some of them—

Were just time spent with his other family. The thought was so absurd, so unbelievable, that I couldn’t accept it.

I reopened the folder with the documents and began reviewing them methodically.

Maybe I misunderstood something. Maybe there was another explanation. But the more documents I looked at, the clearer the picture became.

John had another family I knew nothing about. Among the documents, I found a lease agreement for an apartment in Boston. The apartment was rented in Sarah Miller’s name, even before my wedding to John.

And judging by the lease renewal dates, she still lived there. In Boston? Just a few hours’ drive from our city. I felt nausea rising in my throat.

I needed fresh air. I turned off the computer, removed the USB stick, and went to the window. I opened it wide and took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

What should I do now? How do you respond to a discovery like this? My first impulse was to call John immediately and demand an explanation. But I held myself back. In my current state, there was no way I could have a constructive conversation.

Besides, maybe it would be better to investigate further first, to gather as much information as possible before confronting him. My gaze landed on the clock. Almost noon.

I had spent several hours in front of the computer without even realizing how much time had passed. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten breakfast. But the thought of food made me nauseous.

How can I think about eating when my life has shattered—like that poor cactus pot? The pot. I had completely forgotten about it. The soil was still scattered all over the bedroom floor, and the poor cactus lay on its side.

I needed to clean it up, but I had no strength. Instead, I went back to the computer and reinserted the USB stick. This time, I decided to examine every file, every document carefully, to get a complete picture.

Among other things, I found bank statements. The accounts were in Sarah Miller’s name, but regular deposits were being made from John’s card. The amounts were quite substantial…

Roughly equal to his monthly salary. It turns out that all these years, he had been splitting his income between two families. Yet he always said he didn’t make as much as he wished.

We saved, planned for the future, denied ourselves certain things. But in reality, he had been giving half his income to another woman and their child.

I tried to recall when I first noticed something odd in John’s behavior.

But nothing specific came to mind. He had always been a loving husband, called me from business trips, brought me gifts, asked about my day. Yes, lately he had become more distant, sometimes distracted, but I chalked it up to stress and work problems. How blind I had been.

How did I not notice the obvious signs? Looking back now, I remembered plenty of details that should’ve raised red flags. His strange calls, which he preferred to make not from home, but from outside or in the car.

His sudden changes to his travel schedule. Coming home early or staying longer without much explanation. His hesitation to have children, even though we used to talk about it casually.

A child. John already had a child. A son.

Who must be about 14 years old now. A teenager. And all these years, I thought we were postponing having children because of money or because we wanted to establish our careers first.

That thought filled my eyes with tears. I felt betrayed, used, completely excluded from his real life. Who was I to him all these years? A diversion? An alternative? Or just a convenient front for his secret dealings?

I remembered the strange video where John mentioned some kind of danger, the need to be careful.

Maybe his double life was tied to something illegal. Maybe he was involved in shady business.

Work…

John always said he worked for a construction company, managing material supplies and negotiating with partners. But was that true? I had never been to his office or met his colleagues. He always kept his work life separate from his personal life.

I decided to check. There had to be work-related documents on the USB drive. And sure enough, in one of the folders, I found contracts, agreements, and business correspondence.

But the company mentioned in these documents had a completely different name than the one John claimed to work for. And the industry was different too. It wasn’t construction—it was logistics.

International transportation. The more I dug into the documents, the more confused I felt. Some contracts were written in foreign languages, with companies from countries I barely knew.

The sums mentioned in these documents made me question their legality. Where would a modest supply manager get that kind of money? In one of the last folders, I found something that finally made me lose my grip. Scanned passports.

Not just one, but several. All issued under John’s first name, but with different last names: Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson.

Why would a person need multiple passports with different surnames? The answer came to me on its own, but I was afraid to even think it. It was already getting dark when I finally stepped away from the computer. My head was buzzing from the information overload, and my eyes were sore from staring at the screen.

I felt drained, like a squeezed lemon. But deep down, a sense of determination had taken root. I had to uncover the whole truth—no matter how bitter.

First, I needed to find out if Sarah and her son David were real—or if they were part of an elaborate deception. The photos and videos could be fake. The documents forged.

I needed solid proof. I grabbed my phone and opened social media. If this woman was real, she’d have profiles, pictures, and friends.

I typed “Sarah Miller” into the search bar and got tons of results. Too many to check each one. I had to narrow it down.

I went back to the USB and found Sarah’s birthdate in the documents: February 27, 1985. She was three years older than me.

I added this info to the search, and the results narrowed significantly. Now I just had to match the photos with the one I found in the box. After a few minutes, I found her.

The profile was private, with minimal personal information, but the profile photo left no doubt. It was the same woman. Dark hair, expressive eyes, and a sad smile.

Only now she looked older than in the photo from the box—which was natural. Browsing through her publicly visible posts, I saw several pictures of a teenage boy. He looked strikingly like John.

The same eyes, the same lips, even the same smile. He had the same dimples at the corners of his mouth—something I had always loved about my husband. There was no doubt. Sarah and David were real.

They were real people—not a figment of someone’s twisted imagination. And apparently, they were John’s family. His real family.

I looked through Sarah’s feed and found a post from last week. The photo showed a table set with a birthday cake, and the caption read: “Happy birthday, beloved husband. May all your dreams come true.”

John’s birthday had been last week. He had celebrated it on a business trip.

Or rather—as I now understood—with his other family. Bitterness and resentment surged inside me again. I threw the phone onto the couch and burst into tears.

I sobbed uncontrollably, louder than I had in years. All the built-up tension, the shock of discovery, the pain of betrayal—it all came pouring out in a flood of tears. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, letting it all out.

Maybe minutes, maybe an hour. When I finally calmed down, it was dark outside. I felt hollow—but strangely, I also felt a sense of release.

As if I had cried not only for the pain but for a part of my old self. That naive, trusting woman who had believed in her husband completely. Wiping away my tears, I returned to the task.

Now I had to learn everything I could about Sarah. Who was she? What did she do? How long had she known John? Despite the private profile, I managed to find out a few things from public information. Her place of work.

A company called East Trans. Judging by the name, it was involved in transport or logistics—the same industry John was connected to, according to the documents.

Some friends, some shared interests. Nothing special. Nothing that explained why John was living a double life. I thought:

If Sarah believed she was John’s legal wife, she probably didn’t know about me. Or did she? Maybe she was just as much a victim of deception as I was. I needed to speak to her. Directly. Face to face.

But how would I do that? I couldn’t just message her: “Good morning, I’m your husband’s wife. Let’s meet and discuss the situation.”

It would sound like the start of a cheap soap opera. But I needed answers. And Sarah seemed to be the only person, besides John, who could give them to me.

I went back to the documents on the USB and found the address of the apartment Sarah rented: Boston, Academic Street, building 15, apartment 42. I wrote it down, trying to decide what to do.

Go to Boston? Right now? It sounded crazy. But sitting around waiting for John to return, pretending nothing had happened, was even crazier. Besides, I didn’t know when he’d be back.

He said the business trip would last a month, but now I knew I couldn’t believe a single word. The decision came on its own: I would go to Boston.

Tomorrow. I would find Sarah and talk to her. Maybe she knew more than I did. Maybe she, too, was a victim of John’s lies.

Or maybe she was a willing accomplice in something darker. Either way, I had to know the truth. After making the decision, I felt a strange sense of relief.

At least now I had a plan—something to hold onto in the middle of the chaos. I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. Despite my lack of appetite, I needed to eat something.

It had been a tough day, and the next promised to be even tougher. I would need strength. I opened the fridge, took out some food mechanically, and began preparing a simple dinner.

My hands moved on autopilot, performing familiar tasks, while my thoughts kept circling the secret I had uncovered. How had John lived a double life? How had he lied to both of us without raising suspicion? And most importantly: Why? Why did he need two families, two homes, two lives? The financial aspect also gnawed at me.

Maintaining two households required a significant amount of money. Where had John gotten it? A regular job at a logistics company wouldn’t provide that kind of income. Maybe he really was involved in something illegal.

I remembered his strange video message to Sarah, where he spoke of danger and the need to be careful. Was it tied to some kind of criminal activity? Was this entire double life part of a complex scheme? But what kind?

The questions multiplied—and there were no answers. I realized that unless I spoke with John or Sarah, I would remain in the dark.

But I couldn’t wait for my husband to come back. Too many lies. Too many secrets. I had to act now.

After dinner, I began packing for the trip. The train to Boston left early in the morning—I could buy the ticket online. I packed a small suitcase with the essentials, not knowing how long I’d stay in the city.

Then I checked my bank account. I had enough money for the trip and to stay in a hotel for a few days. The last thing I did was clean up the mess in the bedroom.

I picked up the broken pieces of the flowerpot, swept up the scattered soil, and repotted the cactus into a new container. The damaged plant looked a little shriveled, but still alive. Funny how something as small as a broken pot could trigger such major changes in my life.

After cleaning up, I took a shower and went to bed. Despite the exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, mentally replaying the day’s events, trying to come to terms with the fact that the life I had thought was so stable was actually built on lies.

Around three in the morning, I finally fell into a restless sleep, full of strange and disturbing visions. I dreamed of John, but with a different face. He spoke to me, but his words were incomprehensible, as if in a foreign language.

And nearby, there was always that woman—Sarah—with a child in her arms, looking at me with a sad smile. I was awakened by the alarm at six in the morning. I felt a heavy weight in my head after a sleepless night, but my determination had not left me.

I got ready quickly, ordered a taxi, and went to the station. The train to Boston departed at 7:30. I sat by the window and prepared for the three-hour journey. Through the window, I caught glimpses of the city’s outskirts, replaced by fields and forests, but I barely paid attention. My mind was occupied with the upcoming meeting with Sarah.

What would I say to her? How would I explain my presence? And most importantly, how would she react upon learning that her husband was married to another woman? I imagined myself in her place. How would I react if a stranger showed up at my door claiming to be my husband’s wife? I probably wouldn’t believe it.

I’d think it was some ridiculous joke or a mistake. I needed proof. Something to convince Sarah that I was telling the truth.

I took out my phone and looked at the photos with John. Here’s our wedding photo. We’re under an arch of flowers, happy and in love.

Here’s a picture from our honeymoon in Italy. And here’s last year’s New Year’s Eve. John in a funny Santa hat, with his arm around my shoulders.

These photos should convince Sarah that I’m not delusional. But would they be enough? Maybe I should’ve brought our marriage certificate? It was at home, in the document drawer. No, I decided. The photos would suffice.

Besides, I had the USB drive with the documents I found in the flowerpot. If needed, I’d show them to Sarah. The train arrived in Boston right on time.

10:25 a.m. I stepped onto the noisy platform at the central station and was swept into the hustle and bustle of the big city. I had never been here before, and in other circumstances, I would’ve been impressed by the scale and energy of the metropolis.

But I had no desire for sightseeing. I was focused on my goal. I hailed a taxi and gave the address.

Academic Street, building 15. The driver nodded and took me across the city. The trip took about an hour due to traffic, and the whole time, I tried to organize my thoughts and prepare for the conversation ahead.

But the closer we got, the more nervous I became. What if she wasn’t home? What if the boy—David—opened the door? What would I say? Or worse, what if I ran into John there? After all, maybe he wasn’t on a business trip like he said, but here, with his other family. The thought made my blood boil…

I imagined opening the door and seeing John sitting at the table with Sarah and David. A happy family idyll—with no place for me. How would I react? What would I say? But it was too late to back out.

The taxi was already pulling up to the given address. A typical Boston apartment building in a residential neighborhood. I paid the driver and got out of the car.

For a moment, I was overwhelmed by the desire to turn around and leave, forget all this, go back to my normal life. But I knew that life no longer existed. Too much had changed in the last 24 hours.

I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and went in. Apartment 42 was on the seventh floor. I took the elevator, my heart pounding louder with every second.

Here was the door. An ordinary door, behind which my husband’s other life was hidden. I raised my hand and pressed the doorbell firmly.

Several long seconds passed. No movement or sound. I rang again, more insistently.

Still silence. It seemed no one was home. I looked around, unsure what to do.

Wait? But for how long? An hour or two? All day? What if no one showed up? I had no other address to find Sarah. Then, the door of the neighboring apartment cracked open, and an older woman with a curious gaze peeked out.
“Are you looking for the Millers?” she asked, studying me.

“Yes, Sarah,” I replied, trying to sound confident.
“They’re not home,” the neighbor informed me. “They’ve gone to the cottage for the weekend.”

They’ll be back only on Monday. It was Saturday. So I’d have to wait two days.

“And who are you to them?” the neighbor asked curiously. I hesitated. Who was I to them? No one.

A stranger meddling in someone else’s life. But I couldn’t tell the truth, of course.
“I’m a colleague of Sarah’s,” I improvised.
“I need to give her some important documents.”
“Do you know where their cottage is?” the neighbor asked, squinting, clearly suspicious. But then, she seemed to decide there was nothing criminal in my question.

“Somewhere in the Massachusetts countryside, I think, in the Springfield district,” she replied.
“I can’t say exactly. Not really my business. But if you want, I can give you her mobile number.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said gratefully. The neighbor disappeared inside and returned a minute later with a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

“Here you go,” she said, handing it to me. “Hope it’s nothing urgent.”
“No, nothing that can’t wait until Monday,” I assured her.

“Thanks for your help.” The woman nodded and closed the door, leaving me standing in the hallway holding a piece of paper. Now I had a way to contact Sarah directly.

But was it worth calling? What would I say over the phone? This kind of news shouldn’t be delivered remotely. I went downstairs and stepped outside. The day was warm and sunny, a typical summer day.

People bustled around me, cars honked, kids played nearby. Ordinary, everyday life—so different from the storm inside me. I found the nearest café and went in to grab a bite and figure out what to do.

I ordered a salad and some tea, pulled out my phone, and looked at the number. Call or not? I could say I was calling about work, introduce myself as a colleague—like I did with the neighbor. Then, during the conversation, I could find out exactly where the cottage was and go there.

But would that seem suspicious? While I thought, my order arrived. I chewed the salad mechanically, barely tasting it, still weighing the pros and cons. Then, a sudden decision:

I’ll call John right now. I’ll tell him I know about his second family and demand answers.

After all, he’s the main one responsible for this whole situation, so why not start with him? I dialed my husband’s number, bracing for a hard conversation. But after several rings, I got his voicemail. John wasn’t available.

Maybe he was in a meeting, on the subway, or simply didn’t want to answer. Either way, that path was a dead end. I returned to the original plan.

I needed to find a way to see Sarah in person. And if that meant going to the countryside in the Springfield district, so be it. I opened the map on my phone and searched for the Springfield district.

An hour’s drive from Boston. Not far. But the problem was I didn’t know the exact address.

Just “Springfield district.” Not very helpful. I looked again at the phone number.

Maybe I should call after all? What did I have to lose? Resolute, I dialed the number. My heart was pounding so loud it felt like everyone in the café could hear it. After a few rings, a woman’s voice answered.

“Hello?” It was the same voice I’d heard in the USB video. The voice of my husband’s wife—so different from mine.
“Hi, Sarah,” I said, trying to sound calm and confident.

“Yes, that’s me,” she replied. “And who’s this?” I hesitated for a moment. How should I introduce myself? What excuse could I give to meet?

“My name is Laura,” I said, not using my real name. “I… need to meet you. It’s about John.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“John? Are you… a coworker?” she asked cautiously.
“Not exactly,” I answered vaguely.
“It’s a personal matter. A very important one. I’d prefer to talk in person, not over the phone.”

Another pause. I could almost feel her suspicion through the line.

“I’m not sure I understand what this is about,” she finally said.
“And I’m not in Boston right now.”
“I know. You’re at the cottage,” I said. “Your neighbor told me you’re in the Springfield district.”

“I could go if you give me the exact address. Were you at my house?” There was clear anxiety in her voice. “Who are you? What do you want?” I understood that I was scaring her, but I didn’t see another way to get a meeting.

“Please don’t be afraid,” I tried to calm her. “I won’t hurt you. I just need to talk to you about John. About your husband.” I emphasized the last words, hoping they would make her think. And again—silence.

This time longer. Finally, she spoke, and her voice sounded tense. “How do you know John?” I took a deep breath.

It was time for the truth. Should I tell her now or wait until we met in person? “I’m his wife,” I answered simply. “We’ve been married for six years.” On the other end, I heard a strange sound, like a muffled sob.

Then the connection cut off. Sarah hung up. I stared at the phone screen, unsure of what to do.

Should I call her back? But what would I say? She was obviously shocked, maybe didn’t believe me. And she likely wouldn’t want to continue the conversation. But I needed to see her.

I had to uncover the truth. The whole truth about John, about his double life, about his secrets. I dialed Sarah’s number again, but this time the phone was off or out of coverage.

Apparently, she had decided to avoid any further contact. Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad will go to the mountain. I decided to go to the Springfield district to look for her cottage.

It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I had no other choice. I paid for my meal, left the café, and headed for the subway. I needed to reach the train station where trains to Springfield departed.

On the train, I kept turning the situation over in my mind. What if Sarah really didn’t know about me? What if the news about her husband’s second wife shocked her as much as it had shocked me? Maybe that’s why she hung up—from shock and disbelief.

But then again, what if she did know? What if she was aware of John’s double life and had been actively part of it? Maybe they had both been deceiving me all these years? At this thought, a wave of anger surged through me. How could they? How could John do this to me—and to her? Did he enjoy living a lie, deceiving two women, playing a double game?

The train stopped at Springfield station and I got off the platform. Now came the hardest part.

Finding Sarah’s house somewhere in the entire district filled with rural settlements. I went to the station’s information booth, hoping to find a district map or a list of rural cooperatives. And indeed, there was such a map.

The rural settlements were scattered across Springfield like mushrooms after rain. Dozens, if not hundreds, of plots divided into cooperatives with romantic names: Birch, Sunny, Forest.

How could I find the right person? I had no idea. But I wasn’t going to give up. I pulled out my phone and dialed Sarah’s number again.

To my surprise, this time she answered—almost immediately, as if she had been expecting my call. “I want to meet you,” she said without preamble.

“In one hour, at the Forest Glade Café, on the outskirts of Springfield. Do you know where it is?” I told her I’d find it using the GPS. “Good,” she continued in the same tense voice.

“And… come alone. No witnesses. No police. This is a conversation between us.”

“Of course,” I assured her. “I’ll come alone.” The call ended, and I stood on the platform with the phone in my hand, barely believing my luck.

Sarah herself had suggested the meeting. She set the place and time. So, she wanted to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to her.

I found the café using my GPS. It was about two kilometers from the station. I could walk or take a taxi.

I chose the latter to make sure I wouldn’t be late. The taxi brought me to the café exactly 45 minutes after my call with Sarah. I had 15 minutes to spare before our meeting.

I paid the driver and got out of the car. Forest Glade Café was a small wooden building at the edge of the forest. Nearby was a parking lot with a few cars…

The place was quiet and secluded, perfect for the conversation Sarah and I were about to have. I entered and looked around. There were only a few customers inside.

An elderly couple by the window, a group of young people at a large table in the corner, and a solitary woman at a table at the back of the room. I recognized her instantly, even though I had only seen her in photos—Sarah.

She saw me too and gave a slight nod, inviting me over. I walked to her table, my heart pounding. There she was—the woman who had been my husband’s wife for much longer than I had. The woman who had given him a child.

The woman whose existence had completely upended my life. Up close, she looked older than in the pictures. Dark hair streaked with gray, tired eyes, and lines at the corners of her lips.

But still beautiful, with a quiet and refined elegance. “Hello,” I said, stopping at her table. “I’m Laura.”

“We spoke on the phone.” She looked at me intently, as if evaluating me, then gestured for me to sit. “You said you’re John’s wife,” she said after a pause.

“Is that true?” I nodded and pulled my passport with the marriage stamp from my bag. I handed it to her. “My real name is Emily,” I said. “Emily Anderson. His wife. Look.”

Sarah took the passport, studied the page with my information, then flipped to the page with the marriage stamp.

Her face remained expressionless, but I noticed her knuckles go white as she gripped the document. “Six years,” she said quietly. “You’ve been married for six years?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“And you and John—how long?”
“Sixteen,” she replied, handing the passport back.
“We married in 2009. Even before David was born.”

Sixteen years.

That meant when John married me, he had already been married to Sarah for ten years. Ten years with another home, another family, another life. “So, you didn’t know about me?” I asked, although the answer was obvious.

Sarah shook her head. “No, of course not. Do you think I would let my husband marry another woman? This is… insane!” There was bitterness in her voice, but no anger.

At least not toward me. “How did you find out?” she asked after a pause. I told her about the cactus, the broken flowerpot, the USB stick, and the box I had found.

With every word, her face grew tenser. “That cactus,” she said when I finished. “He always had it.”

“For as long as I can remember. John never parted with it—even took it on business trips. I always wondered about that strange attachment to the plant but chalked it up to his quirks.”

“And what was on the USB?” she asked. “What did you find there?” I told her about the documents, the photos, and the videos. About how John spoke to her in those recordings, warning of potential danger and urging caution.

At the mention of the videos, Sarah shivered. “I never saw those recordings,” she said. “He never showed them to me.”

“And he never said he was recording anything for me. That’s strange.”
“Exactly,” I nodded.
“Why record video messages if you’re never going to show them to the person they’re meant for?” Sarah said, pensively tapping her fingers on the table.
“He was always secretive,” she said at last.

“Even with me. Especially in recent years. All those business trips, late returns, strange phone calls.”

“I suspected he had someone, but I thought it was just an affair. And it turns out…”
“…it turns out he had a whole second life.”

There was so much pain in her voice that I truly felt sorry for this woman. She seemed just as much a victim of John’s deception as I was.
“What about his job?” I asked.
“What does he do, according to your information?”
“He works at a logistics company,” Sarah replied.
“East Trans. Handles international transport. Constant business trips, meetings with partners. I got used to him not being home often.”

“And what did he tell you?”
“That he worked in construction,” I said. “Supplied materials, negotiated with contractors.”
We looked at each other, and at that moment, a strange understanding passed between us. Two women deceived by the same man had suddenly become allies.

“So he lied to both of us,” Sarah said. “The only question is: why? Why did he need two families, two lives? What was the point?”
I shook my head.

I don’t know. But I have a feeling there’s more to it than that. Judging by the videos I saw, he was afraid of something.

He talked about some kind of danger, about the need to be careful. Maybe he was involved in something illegal.
Sarah thought for a moment.

“Possibly,” she finally said. “Lately, he’s been very nervous. He would often check if someone was following him, and he forbade David and me from posting any photos on social media.”

And once I saw him hiding a package in the garage, under the floorboards. When I asked him what it was, he brushed it off, said it was just old documents that might come in handy one day.
We both fell silent, absorbed in our thoughts.

The situation was becoming more and more confusing. Who was John, really? What did he do? And most importantly—where was he now?
“Where is John now?” I asked. “According to him.”
Sarah shrugged.

“On a business trip in Philadelphia. He said he’d be back in two weeks.”
“He told me he was going to New York for a month,” I noted.
So he could be anywhere.

Or with a third family neither of us knew about.
Sarah shook her head.

“No, not that. Two families are already complicated enough. Three? That’s impossible—even for a master liar like John.”
I agreed.
Maintaining a double life was hard enough.

A triple life sounded nearly impossible.
“There’s something else,” I said after a pause. “On the USB drive, I found scans of several passports.”

All in John’s name—but with different surnames. Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson.
Sarah flinched.

“Miller. That’s my surname. John took it when we got married.”

“But it was Anderson in our marriage too,” I pointed out.
We looked at each other, and I saw the same realization in her eyes.

“Fake documents,” she whispered. “He uses different names for different situations.”

“Like a movie spy. Or a criminal.”
I nodded. It explained a lot.
And at the same time, explained nothing.

Why would an ordinary person need fake documents?
The situation was becoming more complicated.

We’d been sitting in the café for over an hour, during which we ordered and drank a cup of tea each, but the conversation didn’t end.

I told Sarah about my life with John, and she told me about hers. Two parallel stories, two versions of the same man.

“Were there any strange things in your life with him?” I asked. “Anything that made you suspicious?”
Sarah thought for a moment.

“There were phone calls,” she answered finally. “Strange calls that made him nervous and irritable.”

Sometimes in the middle of the night. He said it was because of the time difference—his colleagues were from other countries.
But he always went to another room, spoke in a low voice, and when I asked what the calls were about, he dodged the question or got irritated.

“That happened to me too,” I said. “And what else?”
“Packages. He sometimes received packages without a sender.”
He never opened them in front of me—he always took them to his office.

When I asked what was inside, he said it was work materials, technical documents, or samples.
Sarah nodded. “We had those too.”

One time I opened one by accident—I thought they were books I had ordered. There were papers in a foreign language and a small box sealed with tape.
John got really angry and yelled at me.

It was the only time he raised his voice.
I remembered a similar incident in my life with John.

I accidentally took his work briefcase, and when I opened it, I found documents in a language that looked like Arabic.
John was furious. He snatched the bag from me and was gloomy for the rest of the night.

We concluded that our shared husband was clearly involved in something he didn’t want to reveal.
Something possibly related to international dealings—maybe illegal ones.

But what exactly? We didn’t know.
“So what do we do now?” I asked after a long silence. “When he comes back? How do we act?”
Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I’m not even sure I want to see him again after everything I’ve learned.
Sixteen years of marriage, and all this time he lived a double life.
He lied to me, deceived me, and possibly put David and me in danger with his shady business.

How can I trust him after that? How can I keep being his wife?
I understood her feelings. I felt the same.

Six years of my life had been built on lies.
Everything I knew about my husband turned out to be false—a façade hiding an entirely different reality.

“But you have a child,” I said. “David. He needs a father.”
Sarah gave a bitter smile.

“A father who lies and deceives? Who might be a criminal? No, David doesn’t need that kind of role model. He needs someone honest and decent to look up to.”

“And John?”
“John isn’t that.”

I couldn’t agree more.
After everything we had learned, the image of John as an honest, decent family man had collapsed like a house of cards.

In its place stood someone entirely different—deceitful, hypocritical, possibly dangerous.

“And you?” Sarah asked. “What are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

But I definitely won’t go on with this farce. I can’t live with someone I clearly don’t know at all.

We exchanged numbers and agreed to keep each other informed of anything that happened—especially if John showed up at either of our homes.

Just as I was about to leave, Sarah suddenly grabbed my hand.
“Wait,” she said.

There’s something else. You mentioned the box you found inside the cactus pot.
“What was inside, besides the photo?”

“Just the photo,” I replied. “Should there have been something else?”

Sarah frowned.
In the video you saw, John mentioned documents inside the box—bank accounts, real estate, insurance.

But you didn’t find anything like that?
I shook my head.
“No, just the photo.”
“Maybe he meant the documents on the USB drive?”
“Maybe,” Sarah said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“Or maybe the box has a false bottom?”
That hadn’t occurred to me.
A false bottom—like in spy movies.

But given everything we had learned about John, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.

“Do you have the box?” Sarah asked.
“No,” I said.
I left it at home and only brought the USB drive.

Sarah nodded.
“Alright. When you get home, examine it carefully. There might be a hidden mechanism, a compartment.”

I promised I would.
We said goodbye, hugging like old friends, though we’d only known each other for a few hours.
It’s strange how shared misfortune can bring people together.

On the way back to Boston, I reflected on our conversation.
Sarah seemed sincere—just as shocked and confused as I was.

She apparently had no idea I existed, just as I had no idea about her.

We were both victims of the same deception, puppets in the hands of a master manipulator we both called our husband.
But who was John, really?

What was behind all his masks?
And more importantly, did he truly have a dark past—or present—connected to illegal activities, as we suspected?

I returned to Boston late at night. It was around 10 p.m. when I arrived at the central station platform.

Tired, emotionally drained, but determined to uncover the full truth, I decided to spend the night in a hotel and take the first train home in the morning.

I needed to reexamine the box carefully, study all the documents on the USB drive, and maybe find more clues.
And then—

Then I would decide what to do.
How to rebuild my life after everything I had learned.

I found a hotel near the station.

Small, cozy, with friendly staff. I checked in, went up to my room, and collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. The day had been tough, full of emotional shocks.

But despite the fatigue, I couldn’t fall asleep. My thoughts kept circling around John—his double life, his secrets. I decided to review the contents of the USB stick again.

Maybe I missed something the first time. Something that might help solve this puzzle. I opened the laptop, inserted the USB stick, and began methodically going through the files one by one.

I paid special attention to the videos where John was speaking to Sarah, talking about potential danger and the need to be careful. In one of the videos, from last year, John looked particularly tense. He spoke quickly, nervously, frequently glancing around as if afraid someone might hear him.

“Sarah,” he began, “if you’re watching this video, it means something went wrong. It means I couldn’t come back like I promised. The box contains all the necessary documents.

Certificates, accounts, everything you and David need to stay safe. If something happens to me, contact Victor. He knows what to do.

And remember, I always loved only you and David. Everything I did, I did for you.”

The video ended, and I just sat there, staring at the screen.

John mentioned a box with documents inside. But in the box I found in the cactus planter, there was only a photograph. No documents, no certificates—nothing that could ensure Sarah and David’s safety.

And who was this “Victor”? John didn’t mention a last name or give any contact information. How was Sarah supposed to find him? And what does this Victor know that could help in case of danger?

The questions kept multiplying, and the answers didn’t. I continued going through the files, hoping to find at least some clue, some explanation.

In the documents folder, I found a strange file with no extension. It wouldn’t open with standard programs, and I was about to skip it when I saw its name: “Victor”—the very name John mentioned in the video message to Sarah.

I tried to open the file using various programs, but without success. It seemed encrypted or password-protected. That only fueled my curiosity…

What secret could be hidden inside? What important thing was John keeping in this file?

I remembered that the USB stick had scans of passports with different last names. Could one of them belong to the mysterious Victor? I reopened the passport folder and examined each document carefully. And sure enough, one of them had the name Victor Smith.

But the photo was John’s.

So Victor is one of my husband’s alter egos. One of his many identities.

My head was spinning from all these revelations. Who really was the man I lived with for six years? A regular manager? A master of double lives? A criminal with multiple passports? Or someone else I hadn’t even begun to suspect?

It was well past midnight when I finally turned off the computer and went to bed.

The exhaustion took over, and I quickly fell into a deep, restless sleep, full of strange visions and vague fears.

I was woken up by the sound of a message on my phone. It was early morning; dawn was just beginning to break outside the window.

I picked up the phone and looked at the screen. The message was from Sarah:
“I’m in trouble. Someone forced open the cabin door. David and I are safe, but I’m scared to go back to Boston. What if they come there too?”

I called her immediately, but her phone was out of service. I tried sending a message.

Undelivered.
What was going on? Who could have broken into the cabin? And more importantly, was this connected to our conversation about John?

Not knowing what else to do, I decided to return to Springfield, find Sarah’s cabin, and make sure she and her son were okay.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but after everything I’d learned in the past two days, any oddity felt like a potential threat. I quickly packed up, left the hotel, and rushed to the train station. Fortunately, the first train to Springfield was departing in 20 minutes.

I bought a ticket and sat in a half-empty car. The journey felt endless. I couldn’t relax.

What if something had really happened to Sarah?
What if all those talks about danger weren’t just words, but a real warning?

Finally, the train arrived in Springfield. I headed straight to the taxi stand, planning to go to the “Forest Glade” café where I had met Sarah yesterday. From there, I could start looking for her cabin.

The taxi driver, an older man with a kind face, listened to my request with interest.
“To Forest Glade?” he asked. “It’s a bit far. Why do you need to be there so early? The café’s still closed.”

“I’m looking for a friend,” I explained. “She’s staying in a cabin nearby, but I don’t know the exact address. We were supposed to meet at the café, but she’s not answering my calls.”

The driver nodded sympathetically.
“What’s your friend’s name? I might know her. I’ve been driving a taxi around here for 20 years—I know all the locals.”

“Sarah Miller,” I replied, not expecting much. “With her son, David.”

To my surprise, the driver’s face lit up.
“Ah, the Millers. Of course I know them. Good people. Their cabin’s in Sunny, just past Forest Glade. Want me to take you?”

I could hardly believe my luck. Was it really going to be this easy?
“Yes, please—take me to them,” I agreed.

The trip lasted about 20 minutes. We passed the closed “Forest Glade” café, turned onto a dirt road, and soon arrived at the entrance to a rural community marked “Sunny.”

“The Miller cabin is the green one with the white shutters,” the driver pointed out, stopping the car by the curb.
Strangely, their car wasn’t there.

Had they already left? I paid the driver and got out.

Sure enough, no vehicle was in sight on the property.
Had Sarah and David already left? Or had they never come to the cabin this weekend, and the message was fake?

But why did Sarah mention the broken door?
And why wasn’t she answering any of my calls or messages?

I walked up to the gate and pushed it gently.
Unlocked. That was odd. If Sarah was afraid for her safety, wouldn’t she have locked every door and gate?

The yard was neat and well-maintained, with tidy flowerbeds and garden patches.
The two-story house with a terrace looked cozy and well cared for.

As I approached the front door, I immediately noticed signs of a break-in.
The lock was broken, and the door hung loosely on the top hinge.

My heart pounded with anxiety.
Something had definitely happened. Someone broke in.

But where was Sarah? Where was David?

I carefully pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Sarah?” I called. “David? Is anyone home?”
No response. Just silence.

The house felt empty.
I walked through the hallway into the living room. Total chaos reigned here.

Furniture overturned, drawers ripped out, contents scattered across the floor.
It looked like someone had been searching for something—and in a hurry, without concern for damage.

I went upstairs. The same scene.

Devastation, disorder, scattered belongings.
In one room—probably David’s—there were textbooks, sports uniforms, and posters torn from the walls.
In another—likely Sarah’s bedroom—the wardrobe was emptied onto the bed, and the nightstand drawers were torn out.

What had happened here? Who had ransacked the place? And most importantly, where were Sarah and David?

I went downstairs and checked the kitchen. The mess was less severe but still noticeable.
On the table sat two unfinished cups of tea.

So they had been here when the break-in happened.
Did they hear something and try to hide? But where?

And why hadn’t Sarah responded to my calls or messages?

I stepped out onto the back terrace.
From there, I could see the garden and a small forest beyond.

Maybe they ran into the woods? Hid among the trees?

“Sarah! David! It’s me, Emily! Are you here?” I shouted.

No answer.

Only the whisper of leaves and birds chirping in reply.

It seemed no one was there.

But where could they have gone?
They had no car, and the nearest town was several kilometers away.

I went back inside, an uneasy feeling growing in my chest.

Clearly, something happened—something bad. But what exactly, and what does it have to do with John and his secrets? While scanning the room, I noticed something shiny under the overturned armchair. I bent down and picked it up.

It was a mobile phone. The screen was cracked, but the device still worked. I pressed the button and saw the wallpaper.

A photo of Sarah with David. It was her phone—the same one she used to send me the morning message. So she was here when she wrote to me.

And apparently, shortly after, something happened. Something that made her drop the phone and run. Or…

Or she was forced to flee. The thought gave me chills. What if Sarah and David didn’t just go into hiding? What if they were kidnapped? What if all those warnings about danger weren’t just empty words, but a real warning? But who could have kidnapped them? And why? Is it connected to John and his secret affairs? Or to our meeting yesterday? Maybe someone was watching us, found out what we were talking about, and decided to act? I didn’t know what to do. Call the police? But what would I say? That my husband’s wife, with whom he’s in a bigamous relationship, disappeared with her son after our meeting, where we discussed his double life?

It sounded like the rantings of a lunatic. I decided to search the house again, hoping to find some clue, some trace that might indicate what had happened to Sarah and David. In the study, which judging by the furniture belonged to John, the same mess reigned as in the other rooms.

The desk drawers were open, papers scattered, books thrown off the shelves. I began sifting through the scattered documents, hoping to find something useful. Most turned out to be ordinary household bills, receipts, and old letters.

Nothing explained what had happened. But inside one of the books on the floor, I found a sheet of paper tucked in. It was handwritten in a script I instantly recognized.

John’s handwriting.
“Sarah, if you’re reading this, it means my fears have come true. They found out about you and David.

Don’t try to contact me. Don’t stay home. It’s dangerous. Go to Cleveland, to Aunt Mary’s house. You know the address.

You’ll be safe there—at least for a while. And don’t tell anyone about Laura. No one, do you hear me? It’s a matter of life and death.”

I read the note several times, trying to grasp its meaning. John had warned Sarah about danger. He said someone had discovered something about her and David.

He told her to go to Cleveland, to an Aunt Mary. And he told her not to tell anyone about Laura. Laura? Who’s Laura? Another woman in John’s life?

Another secret. And who were “they” that John referred to? Who posed a threat to Sarah and David? Was it all connected to his double life, to his secret activities? The questions multiplied, and the answers were still nowhere to be found. But one thing became clear.

Most likely, Sarah found this note and, following John’s instructions, fled to Cleveland. That’s probably why she hadn’t answered my calls or messages. She was on the run, trying to hide from an unknown threat.

But what should I do? Go to Cleveland and look for Aunt Mary? Or go home, lock myself in the apartment, and wait for John to return, demanding answers? Or maybe go to the police, tell them everything I know, and let them handle it? I had no time to decide. Outside, I heard the sound of an approaching car. I looked out the window and saw a black van stopping in front of the house.

Two men in dark suits got out, looking very much like special agents from a movie. My heart skipped a beat. Who were these people? What did they want? Were they connected to Sarah and David’s disappearance? And most importantly—

Were they a threat to me? I decided not to wait and find out. I quickly hid John’s note in my pocket, slipped out the back door, and ran into the woods. If these men were dangerous, it was best to stay far away from them.

I ran between the trees, trying to move silently and leave no trace. I heard voices behind me. The men had found the house empty and were now apparently searching the area.

I needed to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. I don’t know how long I ran through the forest. Maybe an hour, maybe more. Finally, exhausted, I stopped by a small stream.

I listened. It seemed there was no pursuit. Either the men hadn’t realized I’d escaped, or they decided there was no point chasing a random guest.

I sat on a fallen tree and tried to gather my thoughts. What was happening? Who were these people? Why had John warned Sarah about danger? And more importantly, what should I do now? First, I needed to get out of the forest and back to civilization. Then, I’d decide where to go next.

To Cleveland to look for Sarah? Home? The police? I pulled out my phone to check for signal and froze. The screen showed a missed call.

From John. He had called just 10 minutes earlier, while I was still in the woods, where the signal must have been lost. With trembling fingers, I pressed redial. Ringing.

One, two, three. I thought he wouldn’t answer—then his voice came through. So familiar, yet so strange.

“Emily? Where are you?” There was tension and anxiety in his voice. I didn’t know what to say. Tell the truth? Lie? Pretend I didn’t know about his double life? “In the woods,” I finally answered.

“Not far from your wife Sarah’s country house. The one you forgot to mention for six years of marriage.” There was silence on the other end.

Then John said softly, “You know. That’s not a question, it’s a statement.”

He understood that his secret had been revealed.
“Yes, John, I know,” I confirmed. “I know you’ve been married to another woman for 16 years. I know you have a teenage son.

I know our entire life was a lie.”
“Not all of it,” he protested. “Not all of it, Emily…

I truly love you. That was never a lie.” I smiled bitterly.

“Love? And that’s why you lied to me for years? Led a double life? Cheated on me with a woman who believed she was your only wife? If that’s love, I don’t want to know what hate is for you.”

John sighed. “It’s more complicated than you think, Emily. Much more complicated.

But now’s not the time for explanations. You’re in danger. Both of you are.

Sarah and David are already in hiding. You need to go too. Immediately.” His words gave me chills.

“In danger? From whom?”
“From the people looking for me,” he replied. “I can’t explain now. Just listen to me, for God’s sake.

Get out of Springfield. Go home, grab the essentials, and head to Cleveland. Pushkin Street, house 101.

Ask for Mary. Tell her I sent you. She’ll help.”

“But…” I began, but John interrupted me. “No buts, Emily.

It’s a matter of life and death. Your life—or your death. Do what I say.

And… be careful. You may be being followed.” He hung up, leaving me completely bewildered.

What is going on? Who are these people looking for him? Why does he think I’m in danger? And why should I believe him after everything I’ve discovered? But on the other hand, his fear sounded real. And those two men at Sarah’s house did seem suspicious. What if John is telling the truth and I really am in danger?

I decided not to take any chances. Leaving the forest, I found a road that led to the nearest town. There, I managed to get a ride to Springfield, and from there, I took the first train home.

The whole trip, I couldn’t stop thinking about the situation I was in. Who was John really? Why was he being chased? And how serious was the threat to me, to Sarah, and to David? When I got home, the first thing I did was check the apartment. Everything was just as I had left it.

The mess in the bedroom from the broken flowerpot, the computer still on at the table, the unwashed mug in the kitchen. No signs of a break-in, no indication that anyone had been there while I was gone. I went to the bookshelf where I had found the box in the pot.

I picked it up and examined it closely. A plain, slightly rusted metal box with a small lock. Nothing special.

But Sarah had suggested the box might have a false bottom. What if she was right? What if there really were documents hidden in it—the ones John mentioned in his video messages? I turned the box over and began tapping the bottom, searching for irregularities or hidden mechanisms. And sure enough, in one spot, the sound was duller, as if something was beneath the metal panel.

I carefully examined the bottom of the box and noticed a tiny button, almost invisible, along the edge. I pressed it, and part of the base slid to the side, revealing a small hidden compartment. Inside was a folded sheet of paper.

I unfolded it and saw handwritten text. The handwriting was unfamiliar—it wasn’t John’s. Coordinates.

54, 36, 39, 12. Key in the cavity of the upper right third molar.

Encrypted documents. Password. Date of birth (MPV) in alphabetical order.

Account access code. First five digits after the decimal point of Pi, plus the year of acquaintance. I read the note several times, trying to understand its meaning.

Coordinates for a location. A key hidden in a tooth. Encrypted documents.

All of this sounded like something out of a spy novel, not the real life of an ordinary supply manager. But John, I now understood, wasn’t an ordinary manager. He led a double life, had multiple passports with different surnames, and warned of some danger.

Who was he really? A spy? A criminal? Someone hiding from the law or from some dark figure? I decided to check the coordinates. I opened the map on my computer and entered the numbers: 54.36 north latitude, 39.12 east longitude.

The map showed a location in the forests of Pennsylvania, far from any towns. A forest or a field. What could be hidden there? And how was it connected to John and his secrets? The rest of the note was even more mysterious.

Key in the cavity of the upper right third molar. What does that mean? Whose molar? John’s? Who wrote the note? And what encrypted documents? Where are they? On the same USB drive I found in the flowerpot? And how do I decode the password? Date of birth: M plus V, in alphabetical order. M—probably John.

But who is V? And the last part: account access code. The first five digits after the decimal point of Pi, plus the year of acquaintance.

I remembered Pi from school. 3.14159. So the first five digits after the decimal…

1, 4, 1, 5, 9. And the year we met?
If it’s the year I met John, then it’s 2016. So, the code would be:
1, 4, 1, 5, 9, 2, 0, 1, 6.

But what account was this for? John and I had a joint bank account, but I knew the access code, and it was completely different. Maybe there was another account I didn’t know about?
The questions kept multiplying, and the answers remained elusive.

But there was no time left to ponder. John said I was in danger—and even though I wasn’t sure I could trust him after everything I had discovered, his anxiety seemed genuine.
Also, those two men at the cabin looked very suspicious.
I decided to follow John’s advice and go to Cleveland, to meet the mysterious Aunt Mary.

Maybe I’d find Sarah and David there.
Maybe I’d discover the full truth about John and his secrets.
Or maybe I’d finally be safe from whoever might be after me.

I quickly packed the essentials into a small bag and looked around the apartment one last time.
Six years of life within these walls. Six years that turned out to be built on lies.

It was painful to realize, but even more painful was the uncertainty.
What was waiting for me? Would I ever see this house again?
Would I ever see John again?
I closed the door and went downstairs. Outside, everything was calm—nothing suggested any danger.

But after John’s warning, I began to suspect everything.
I felt like someone was hiding behind every corner, like every passing car was following me.
When I arrived at the station, I bought a ticket for the next train heading toward Cleveland.

As I waited to board, I nervously looked around, scanning for suspicious people.
But no one paid me any attention.
Just ordinary passengers, busy with their own lives.

The train arrived on time, and I sat by the window.
As the train pulled out, I finally allowed myself to relax a little.
Whatever awaited me in Cleveland, at least I was moving—no longer sitting at home, waiting for some unknown danger to find me.

Familiar landscapes passed outside the window.
The city slowly gave way to suburbs, then fields, forests, small towns.
A calm, ordinary landscape that sharply contrasted with the chaos inside me.

I thought again about John, about his double life, his secrets.
Who was he really? Why was he living such a strange, divided existence?
And most importantly: Did he ever truly love me?
Or was I just part of some elaborate game?

I tried to recall any signs of deception over the years we were together.
Were there moments when he slipped up? When the mask fell, revealing his true self?
I couldn’t remember anything specific.
John had always been a caring, attentive husband.
Yes, he had frequent business trips, strange phone calls, unexplained absences…

But I chalked it all up to the demands of his job, his stressful schedule.
I never suspected that behind these little oddities, a whole second life was being hidden.
How did he manage to live a double life for so many years?
How did he split his time between two families?
How did he keep track of what he had told to whom, which stories went where?

It took an incredible amount of organization—almost like acting talent.
Or… perhaps a pathological ability to lie.

The train arrived in Cleveland two hours later.
I got off the platform and went straight to the taxi stand.

I gave the driver the address: Pushkin Street, House 101.
The ride took about 20 minutes.

The car stopped in front of a small, single-story house with a neat front garden.
Nothing extraordinary. Just a normal house in a quiet neighborhood of a provincial city.

Who lived here? Was she really John’s aunt?
Did she know about his double life?
I paid the driver, grabbed my bag, and walked toward the front door.
For a moment, doubt crept in.
What would I say to the woman who opened the door?
How would I explain my presence?

But there was no turning back.

I opened the gate and walked along the path to the front door.
I took a deep breath and rang the bell.
Several seconds passed before the door opened.

Standing there was an elderly woman, about 70 years old, with a kind, wrinkled face and sharp eyes.
“Hello,” I said. “Are you Mary?”
The woman nodded, looking me over carefully.
“Yes, I am. And who are you?”
“My name is Emily,” I replied. “Emily Anderson. I’m here… on John’s behalf.”

When I said John’s name, her expression changed.
Worry and alertness flickered in her eyes.

“Come in,” she said quickly, stepping aside to let me in. “Don’t stay on the doorstep.”
I entered, and Mary immediately locked the door—every bolt.
There were at least three, which struck me as odd for such a quiet town.

“Follow me,” she said, leading me down a short hallway into the living room.
The room was cozy and clean, with furniture that looked like it hadn’t changed since the Soviet era.
A couch with a knitted cover, a glassware cabinet, a TV on a wooden stand, bookshelves lining one wall.
Everything spoke of a peaceful, measured life.

Nothing suggested danger—or secrets.

But what caught my attention wasn’t the décor.
It was the people sitting on the couch.

Sarah and David.

They were there, safe and sound.

“Emily!” Sarah exclaimed, leaping up from the couch. “Thank God you’re here too. We were so worried.”

She rushed over and hugged me tightly, like an old friend.
David, a thin teenager whose features clearly resembled John’s, looked at me with curiosity and interest.

“You know each other?” Mary asked in surprise, glancing between Sarah and me.

“Yes,” Sarah replied. “We met yesterday. Emily… she’s John’s wife. The other one.”

Mary shook her head.
“Oh, John, John. What have you done?”

I sank into an armchair, feeling the tension of the past few days start to ease.
At least Sarah and David were safe.
And I seemed to be, too. For now.

“Tell me what happened,” I asked Sarah.
“Who broke into the cabin? Why did you run?”

Sarah sat next to me and began her story.
After our conversation at the café, she had returned to the cabin and told David the truth.
Not everything, of course—she had left some parts out—but she explained that his father was living a double life, that he had another wife…

David was in shock; he refused to believe it.
We talked at length, trying to understand what it all meant. And then, later that night, I found that note in John’s office.

It warned of danger and advised me to go there, to see his aunt. I didn’t know whether to believe him, but I decided not to take any chances.

We were going to leave in the morning, but we didn’t have time.

They arrived first.
“Who were they?” I asked.
“Two men in black suits,” Sarah replied.
“They came to the house in a black van. I saw them from the bedroom window and immediately knew they didn’t have good intentions.”

David and I managed to sneak out the back door and hide in the neighbor’s shed. We saw them break down the front door and go inside. They turned everything upside down, clearly searching for something. And then they left.

We waited until nightfall and walked to the nearest town. From there, we drove to Cleveland. I had Mary’s address; John had mentioned it once.

“Were you followed?” I asked.
Sarah shook her head.
“I don’t think so. We were very careful. I ditched my phone so we couldn’t be tracked. I bought a new one here in Cleveland to send you the message.”

“Did you understand it?”
“I did,” I nodded. “That’s why I came to the cabin. And it seems I almost ran into the same people.”

I told them about my visit to the cabin, how I hid in the woods from the strangers in black suits, about John’s call and his warning.

“So it’s true,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “We really are in danger.”
“But why? What did John do? And who are these people?”

All eyes turned to Mary. If anyone could shed light on John’s secrets, it was probably her.

The elderly woman sighed and stood up from the couch.
“I’ll make tea,” she said. “This is going to be a long conversation.”

While Mary was in the kitchen, Sarah and I exchanged updates. I told her about the note found in the box’s hiding place, the strange coordinates and codes.

“What does it all mean?” Sarah wondered. “This feels like a spy novel, not real life.”

“Maybe it is,” came Mary’s voice as she returned with a tray of tea and a plate of cookies.
“Maybe John really was involved in what we’d call espionage.”

She placed the tray on the table and sat across from us.
“I’m not actually John’s aunt,” she began. “I’m his handler. Or I was, until he decided to leave the game.”

“Handler?” I repeated. “In what sense?”
“John worked for the special services,” Mary explained.

“Or rather, he used to. He was an undercover agent embedded in an international criminal organization involved in arms and drug trafficking.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“John? A special agent?” It sounded so absurd, so unbelievable, I almost laughed. But Mary’s face was completely serious.

“Is this a joke?” Sarah asked, seemingly feeling the same disbelief.
“I’m afraid not,” Mary said, shaking her head.

“John was recruited 15 years ago, while still a student. He was carefully inserted into the organization. He had to create a new identity, a new life story. And later, another one, when he needed to expand his network.”

“But why did he have to get married?” Sarah asked. “Why start a family if he was working undercover?”
“It was part of his cover,” Mary explained.

“A family man is seen as more trustworthy. It also gave him a sense of stability, an anchor to the real world. Undercover agents often lose track of who they really are. Having a family helped John stay grounded.”

“And the second family?” I asked. “Why did he need me if he already had Sarah and David?”

Mary looked at me with compassion.
“That wasn’t planned. John met you during one of his missions. You were only supposed to be a source of information, but he fell in love. Truly, for the first time in years.”

“He shouldn’t have married you — it was a violation of all the rules — but he couldn’t help himself.”

Her words took my breath away. John really loved me. It wasn’t an act. He wasn’t pretending.

“If you were his handler, why did you allow it?” Sarah asked, bitterness in her voice.
“Why didn’t you stop him when he decided to start a second family?”
“I tried,” Mary sighed. “I told him it was too risky, that he was endangering himself, the women, and the child. But he was adamant. He said he could handle it — that he could protect everyone. And I have to admit, he managed it… until recently.”

“What changed?” I asked.

Mary hesitated, as if deciding how much she could tell us.
“Six months ago, John got intel about a large weapons shipment. Not just any weapons — chemical weapons banned under international treaties. He passed the information up the chain, and a raid was planned to intercept them. But something went wrong. The criminals found out about the raid and got away.”

“They suspected a mole and started investigating. John realized the circle of suspicion was closing in, and his exposure was imminent. It was only a matter of time. So, he decided to disappear — to fake his death and start a new life. With both of you.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah and I exhaled in unison.

“He had a plan,” Mary continued. “He prepared documents, money, new identities for you and the child. He was going to talk to each of you first, explain the situation, and then bring you together. He hoped that even if you didn’t become friends, you could at least coexist peacefully for the sake of safety. But he didn’t have time. They found him sooner than expected.”

“Where is he now?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling.
Mary spread her hands. “I don’t know. He contacted me three days ago and said he needed to lay low. He promised to get in touch when it was safe. I haven’t heard from him since.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. We each tried to digest what we’d just heard.

John. Not just a man with a double life — but a deep-cover agent. It explained so much: the constant absences, the odd phone calls, his reluctance to talk about work. But it didn’t make accepting it any easier.

“What do we do now?” David asked. He had been silent until then, listening carefully.
“Are we in danger?”
Mary nodded. “I’m afraid so. If the criminals are tracking John, they could target you too — as leverage or for revenge.”

“So now we have to hide for the rest of our lives?” Sarah asked bitterly.
“Not forever,” Mary said, shaking her head. “John left you a way out. Emily, you mentioned a note with coordinates and codes?”

I nodded and pulled the folded paper from my pocket — the one I’d found hidden in the box.
“Here, read it yourself.”

Mary took the note and studied it closely.
“Just as I thought,” she nodded. “These are the instructions John left you for finding a safe house and funds. The coordinates point to a location in the Pennsylvania woods. There’s probably a cache there — documents or keys.”

“The mention of the tooth… it’s about John. He really does have a tooth with a microchip embedded in it. It contains the encryption key to access a secure server with additional files. And the bank account access code.”

“But how does that help us?” I asked.
“John’s gone. The encryption key is with him. How can we access the documents or the account?”

Mary thought for a moment.
“There might be a backup. John was cautious — he likely created a secondary access key. Maybe it’s in that cache at the coordinates.”

“So we have to go there?” Sarah clarified.
“I’m afraid so,” Mary nodded. “But it’s risky. You could be followed.”

I thought again of the men in suits who ransacked Sarah’s cabin. Were they criminals hunting John? Or agents trying to protect us — or find him?

“Can’t you help?” I asked Mary.
“If you were his handler, surely you have contacts or resources?”

The elderly woman shook her head.
“I retired three years ago. Officially, I have no connection to John’s operation. I can offer advice and temporary shelter, but nothing more. And besides, John has been acting on his own lately, not always reporting to his superiors.”

“So I’m not even sure who I can trust.”

“So we’re on our own,” Sarah summed up. “Only we can help each other.”

Silence fell. Each of us was lost in thought. The situation felt hopeless.

Danger was looming, John had disappeared, and our only hope of salvation was a mysterious hideout somewhere in the forests of Pennsylvania.

“I think we should go to those coordinates,” I finally said. “What do we have to lose? If there’s really something there that could help us start a new life, the risk is worth it.”

Sarah nodded. “Alright. But how will we get there? We don’t have a car, and public transport won’t take us to some remote forest.”

“I have a car,” Mary offered. “It’s old, but it runs. I can lend it to you.”

“But it’s better if you go at night—less chance of being seen.”

We discussed the details of the trip. We decided to leave at midnight, when the roads would be empty.

Mary gave us a map of Pennsylvania, marking the spot corresponding to the coordinates from the note. It was indeed in the woods, away from populated areas.

“How would we find a hideout there?” “What if the coordinates aren’t accurate enough and we have to search through hundreds of square meters of dense forest?” But we had no other choice.

This was our only shot at survival.

We spent the rest of the day at Mary’s house, preparing for the night journey. The elderly woman gave us warm clothes, flashlights, food, and water.

We studied the map, trying to plot the safest route. And the entire time, I couldn’t stop thinking about John.

Where is he now? Is he alive? And when will we see him again—if ever?

At eleven at night, we were ready to go.

Mary led us through the back door to the garage, where an old Ford Focus was parked.

“Full tank,” she said, handing the keys to Sarah. “Documents are in the glove box.”

“Good luck, and be careful.”

The three of us—Sarah, David, and I—got in the car.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Sarah turned off the headlights and drove using only the parking lights until we left the city limits. Only once we were on the highway did she switch to low beams, and the car disappeared into the night.

The first hour of the journey passed in silence.

Everyone was deep in thought. I looked out the window at the trees flying past and thought how unbelievably life can change in just a couple of days. Just a Saturday morning ago, I was an ordinary woman with ordinary problems and joys.

And now I was driving at night down a deserted road with my husband’s wife and child, hiding from strangers and searching for a hideout with documents for a new life. If someone had told me this story, I would have thought it was fiction—a plot from a cheap spy novel.

But this was my reality—my life—unexpectedly turned into a thriller.

“How did you meet John?” David suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

I turned toward him. The teenager was sitting in the back seat, hugging his knees.

In the soft glow from the dashboard, his face looked older, more serious.

“We met at a modern art exhibit,” I answered after a pause. “I was there with a friend, and he…”

He said he was there for work, that his company was sponsoring the event. We started talking at one of the installations. He was very attentive, interested in my opinion, and joked around.

By the end of the night, he asked for my number. A couple of days later, he called and invited me on a date.

“And you had no idea he had a family.”

There was no accusation in David’s voice—just genuine curiosity.

“No, of course not,” I shook my head. “He never gave me any reason to suspect.”

He was attentive and kind. Of course, there were moments that, looking back, seem suspicious now. Frequent business trips, strange calls.

But I chalked it all up to quirks of his job.

“And now it turns out his job was espionage,” David said softly. “And Mom and I didn’t know anything either.”

“He knew how to keep secrets,” said Sarah, eyes still on the road. “And build his life on lies.”

There was bitterness in her voice—and I understood it. We were both deceived by someone we trusted, someone we loved. And even though we now knew the reason for his lies—

A noble one, as Mary had put it—it wasn’t easy to accept.

“Do you still love him?” Sarah suddenly asked, glancing at me.

I thought about it. Did I love John? After everything I’d learned? After everything that happened?

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

“I’m not even sure I ever knew the real John—the person behind all the masks and roles. But I loved the John I knew. And I think part of me still loves him.”

“What about you?”

Sarah stayed quiet for a long time, focused on the road.

“I lived with him for sixteen years,” she finally said.

“I gave birth to his son. I shared joys and sorrows with him. And all that time, he lied to me.”

“Not about little things—but the biggest things. It’s not even just that he had another family. I could forgive infidelity.”

“But he hid his entire life—his job, his goals. Everything about himself.”

“How can I love someone I don’t even know?”

Silence returned, broken only by the hum of the engine and the crunch of the tires on the asphalt.

We drove all night, three people connected by one man and his secrets.
Three lives turned upside down because of a broken flowerpot. Around three in the morning, we turned off the main road onto a dirt path.

Sarah’s phone GPS said we were about 20 kilometers from the coordinates. The road got worse. Asphalt gave way to dirt, and the car began to shake from the bumps.

I started to worry that we might get stranded somewhere in the wilderness, with no signal and no way to get help. But Sarah drove confidently, as if she were used to these roads. Maybe she was.

Maybe she, John, and David often went out into nature—unlike John and me, who preferred city life. Finally, the GPS told us we had arrived at our destination. Sarah stopped the car and turned off the engine.

In the silence that followed, the sounds of the night forest were especially sharp—the rustling leaves, the hoot of an owl, a distant crack. We got out of the car and looked around.

We were surrounded by forest. A typical deciduous forest—nothing remarkable. No landmarks, no signs of a hideout.

Just trees, bushes, grass, and a forest path disappearing into the distance.
“So what now?” David asked, scanning the area with a flashlight.
“How are we supposed to find the hideout?”

Good question.

The coordinates brought us here—but what next? There had to be some kind of clue, some kind of sign. I took out the note and read it again.

Coordinates.
Key in the cavity of the upper right third molar.
Encrypted documents. Key.
Date of birth (MPV) in alphabetical order.
Access code to the account: First five digits after the decimal point of Pi, plus the year of the relationship.

Nothing about the location of the hideout. Unless…

“Key in the cavity of the upper right third molar,” I said thoughtfully.

What if it’s not just about John’s tooth? What if that’s a clue?
Third molar. Upper right.

I looked to the right and then upward. Nothing special. Trees. A sky full of twinkling stars.

“Maybe it’s related to a specific tree,” Sarah suggested, shining the flashlight on nearby trunks.
“But how would we know which one? There are hundreds here.”

We started examining the trees growing to the right of the path. Nothing unusual—oaks, birches, and poplars.

No markings, no notches, nothing that suggested a hiding place.
“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place,” David said. “Maybe the clue means something else.”

I read the note again. Third molar, upper right. Third…

Right. Up. What if it’s directional?

Suddenly, it hit me.
“Third… as in the third tree? On the right side of the path? And up—maybe the hiding place is up in the tree?”

We started counting trees on the right side of the path. First. Second. Third.

It turned out to be a towering oak with a broad canopy. We aimed the flashlight upward, inspecting the branches. And sure enough—about three meters up the trunk, there was a hollow.

“Here it is,” Sarah exclaimed. “This must be the hideout.”

But how would we reach it? The hollow was too high to reach from the ground, and the lower branches of the oak were even higher.

“I can try to climb it,” David offered. “I do rock climbing—I should be able to handle this.”

Sarah looked concerned, but after a moment’s thought, she nodded.
“Alright—but be careful. And if you feel like you can’t go up or down, let us know immediately. We’ll figure something out.”

David took off his jacket to climb more easily and began to scale the trunk of the oak. His hands and feet gripped the rough bark confidently.

Sarah and I held our flashlights on him to help him see, watching his progress anxiously. Finally, he reached the hollow.

“There’s something here!” he shouted from above. “Some kind of container!”

He pulled a small metal cylinder from the hollow—like a capsule—and began to climb back down.

A few minutes later, he was standing next to us, holding out his discovery. The container was tightly sealed with a screw-on lid. I tried to open it, but the lid wouldn’t budge.

“It looks like it’s sealed with something,” I said, inspecting where the lid met the body. “Or welded shut.”

“Then we need to open it,” Sarah said firmly.
“But not here. Let’s go back to the car.”

We sat in the cabin, turned on the lights, and began inspecting the container closely.

Its smooth metal surface had no inscriptions or markings. Only the lid had a small bump—like a button.

“Maybe you’re supposed to press it?” David suggested.

I carefully pressed the bump. There was a soft click, and the lid lifted slightly. I unscrewed it and looked inside.

The container held several items: a USB flash drive, a sealed pouch with something that looked like a microchip, three passports, and a folded sheet of paper. I took out the passports and opened them.

They were foreign—issued under the names Emily, Sarah, and David Novak. The birthdates matched ours, but the last names had been changed. Each passport had a corresponding photo.

I had no idea how John had gotten mine.

“These are our new identities,” Sarah whispered, looking at the passport with her name. “For a new life.”

I unfolded the sheet of paper.

It was a handwritten letter from John.

My dear ones,
If you’re reading this letter, it means you’ve met each other and found the treasure. I had hoped to explain everything to you myself, but it seems the circumstances turned out differently.

I know you probably hate me now—for the lies, the double life, the secrets I kept. I’m not asking for forgiveness.

What I did is unforgivable. But I want you to know—I loved you both.

In different ways, during different stages of my life—but sincerely and deeply.

Sarah, you were my first true love. The mother of my child. My rock during the hardest times. You gave me a family when I needed it most.

Emily, you came into my life later—when I no longer believed I could feel those things again. You brought light and warmth. You reminded me who I really was.

I know I caused you pain, and I can’t undo that. But at the very least, I can ensure your safety.

Inside the container, you’ll find everything you need to start a new life:
Passports, a USB with instructions, a microchip containing the decryption key to access a server with additional documents, and the code to a Swiss bank account.

The first five digits after the decimal point of Pi are 14159, plus the year I met Sarah—2007.
There’s enough money in there for you to begin a new life in any country in the world.

I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again.

If I manage to get out of this situation, I will find you. If not, I want you to know that you were the best part of my life.

Take care of each other.
John.

I finished reading and looked up.

Sarah was crying silently, covering her face with her hands. David held her by the shoulders, barely holding back his own tears. I, too, felt a lump in my throat.
John had loved us both.

In different ways, but sincerely. And now, perhaps, he was in danger—or even dead—trying to protect us.
“What do we do now?” David asked once we had calmed down a bit.

I looked at the passports, the USB drive, John’s letter.
“Do what he suggested,” I replied.
“Start a new life. Together.”

Sarah looked up at me, her eyes full of tears.
“Together? Are you really ready to live with us? After everything that happened?”

I didn’t know if I was ready for this. To live with the woman who had also been my husband’s wife, with the son he had never mentioned.
It was strange, unusual—beyond anything I could have imagined a week ago.

But we had no choice.
We were connected.

Connected by John, by his secrets, by his love, by his concern for our safety.
And maybe only together could we survive in this new, dangerous reality.

“Yes,” I nodded.
“Together.”

At least until we were sure the danger had passed.
Sarah wiped her tears and gave a faint smile.
“Alright.”

“Together, then. After all, we are a family now.
Strange, unusual—but a family.”

We decided not to return to Cleveland, but to go straight to New York’s international airport.
On the way, we stopped at a 24-hour gas station with a small store and bought new clothes to change our looks.
Sarah cut her long hair; I dyed mine from brunette to blonde.

David put on thick-rimmed glasses, which completely changed his appearance.
At the airport, we used our new passports to buy tickets for the next flight to Zurich.
Switzerland seemed like the logical choice, considering the bank holding our money was there.

While we waited to board, I thought about how incredible it is that life can change so dramatically in just a few days.
Just last Saturday, I was an ordinary woman, living an ordinary life.
And now I was sitting in an airport with my husband’s other wife and his son, holding a new passport, a new look, preparing to fly to another country and start a new life—all because of a broken cactus pot.

Because of one careless moment.
Who would’ve thought such a small thing could completely alter our destiny?

Seeing Sarah and David sitting beside me in the waiting area, I realized they were thinking the same thing.
About John, his secrets, his love, and his sacrifice for our safety.
And whether we would ever see him again.

Our flight was announced.
We stood up, grabbed our few belongings, and headed to the gate.

Uncertainty awaited us, a new life in a foreign country, possibly a constant fear of being discovered.
But we were together.
Three people connected by one man and his secrets.

Three lives turned upside down by a broken flowerpot.
And maybe that connection would help us survive in this new reality.

And John?
If he could, John would find us.

I believed that.
I believed that the love he felt for us would help him overcome any obstacle.
And maybe one day we would be together again.

Not as a normal family, of course.
But as something new, unusual—beyond conventional relationships.
But together.

As I passed through the security checkpoint, I turned back one last time, as if expecting to see John’s familiar figure running after us.
But all I saw was a crowd of strangers, busy with their own lives.
It was time to leave the past behind and move on.

We boarded the plane, and minutes later, it took off, carrying us toward a new life.
A life that began with a broken cactus pot.
A life full of surprises, danger, but also new opportunities.

A life we would build together—day by day, step by step.
And who knows—maybe someday, in a new house, on a new windowsill, I’ll see a cactus again in a clay pot.
And maybe beside it, there will be John, smiling his familiar, slightly sad smile.

After all, anything is possible in life.
I’ve been convinced of that.

After those words, my mother fell silent.

She never imagined that my seemingly ordinary story about a broken cactus would become the beginning of such an incredible tale.
A story about how one careless step can change your destiny forever, overturn everything you thought you knew about life—and about the people you think you know.

My mother stayed silent for a while, taking it all in.
And then she asked just one thing:
“Is it all true? Was John really an undercover agent? Did Sarah, David, and you really start a new life in Switzerland?”

I smiled and said that some stories are better left unanswered.
That everyone should decide whether to believe them or not.

But one thing I’m certain of:
You can never be sure you truly know someone.
Not even those closest to you.

Everyone has their own secrets, their own inner life that others can only guess at.
And sometimes, it only takes a random event—a broken pot, an unexpected encounter, a conversation overheard by chance—

For those secrets to come to light and change your life forever.

It’s been five years since then.
Five years of new life, new discoveries, new relationships.

And every day, I wake up thinking how incredible and unpredictable life is.
How one small event can set off a chain of changes that affect not only you but everyone around you.

And every day, I thank fate for bringing me here.

For helping me find the strength not to fall apart,
To accept the truth—however bitter—and move forward.
To form a new family.

Strange, unusual, but loving and understanding.

And John?
Sometimes John appears in my dreams.
He smiles his familiar smile and says everything will be alright.
That he’s proud of us.

That he loves all of us in different ways—but sincerely.
And I believe him.

I believe that wherever he is, whatever happens, that love remains unchanged.
Just like our love for him.

Maybe one day he’ll come back.
Or maybe we’ll find out what really happened to him.

But for now, we live.
Day by day, step by step.

Building our new life.
Creating new memories, a new reality.

And on the windowsill of our living room, there’s a cactus in a clay pot.
A reminder of how it all started.
And that the biggest changes in life sometimes begin with the smallest, most ordinary things.

Who would’ve thought that a broken cactus pot could change everything?