Renowned psychotherapist Matthew Anthony Harris offers private consultations and family therapy, specializing in “Relationship crises, personal growth, and trauma recovery.” James felt nausea rising. “A psychotherapist? Sarah’s seeing a psychotherapist? Why didn’t she tell me? And why such huge amounts?” On the website’s photo, Harris looked polished.
Graying temples, a steady gaze through thin-framed glasses, a faint half-smile. Something about that smile unnerved James. A recent conversation surfaced in his memory.
A month ago, Sarah had mentioned they needed to talk more, that they were drifting apart. He’d brushed it off. Work, bills, the car loan.
A new message made James jump. “Sarah: I’ll be late tonight, swamped with the annual report, don’t wait for dinner.”
His fingers typed a reply. “Can I pick you up? We could grab dinner somewhere.” “No need, hon, I’m in a meeting, then I have to swing by Rachel’s to grab some documents.” James closed his eyes.
Rachel, Sarah’s department head. “Could I call her to check?” “No, that’s too low.” He opened the photo of Sarah on his phone’s lock screen.
Sarah was smiling—that same smile he’d fallen for fifteen years ago. Had she been pretending all this time? The doorbell rang.
His mom, Margaret Anne Thompson, stood at the door with grocery bags. “Jimmy, I got the transfer. Thank you so much.
I thought I’d bake some pies. I know how much Sarah loves them.” He took the bags mechanically, letting her in.
Her mention of Sarah’s name twisted something inside him. “Mom, have you…” He hesitated. “Have you noticed anything odd about Sarah lately?” Margaret stopped halfway to the kitchen, looking at her son closely.
“What’s wrong?” “Nothing, just… she’s been working a lot.” James forced a smile. “She’s always been so responsible,” Margaret said, unpacking the groceries. “Remember how you two met?”
Of course he remembered. An economics paper, the library, Sarah with a stack of books. She’d slipped on the wet floor, and he’d caught her and the books. They drank coffee in the campus cafeteria, talking until it closed.
She was from a parallel class. “So serious,” Margaret continued, pulling out ingredients. “Everything organized, everything planned.
If not for her, where would you be with your scatterbrained ways?” James nodded absently, helping with the groceries. Yes, Sarah was always organized. Maybe too organized.
Organized enough to hide something big for years. “Son, are you sure you’re okay?” Margaret touched his shoulder. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“Just tired, Mom. Work’s been crazy.” James turned to the window, hiding his eyes.
“Sure.” Margaret didn’t sound convinced but didn’t press. “Let’s make some apple pies, your favorite.”
The phone buzzed again. James hoped it was Sarah, but it was the bank.
Dear Customer, please settle your credit card balance overdue. He frowned. What overdue balance? Sarah always had everything under control.
He opened the banking app again. Sure enough, a $1,200 deficit on the credit card. When had that piled up? “Mom, I’ll be right back,” he muttered, stepping into the hallway. The credit card’s transaction history revealed a series of odd payments. Milano Royal Boutique—$430.
Venetian Spa—$285. La Scala Restaurant—$126. All within the last month.
Sarah was never a spender. She preferred celebrating her birthday at home with family, saying restaurant food was overpriced and bland.
But now… James leaned against the wall. Conversations from recent weeks echoed in his mind. “Honey, I’m dining with the girls from work tonight.”
“I signed up for a massage, my back’s been hurting.” “Rachel needs help with reports, I’ll be late.” Each phrase now sounded hollow.
Took on new meaning. “James, what are you doing out there?” His mother’s voice snapped him back. “Come help knead the dough.”
He returned to the kitchen mechanically. Margaret was laying out flour and eggs. “You know,” she began, cracking eggs into a bowl.
“I look at you and Sarah and feel so happy. So many years together, and you’re still like newlyweds. She takes such good care of you.” James nearly dropped the flour bag.
“Takes care of me?” Or “keeps her secrets?” “Remember when she nursed you through pneumonia?” Margaret went on. “Didn’t sleep, made broth.” He remembered.
Three years ago, winter, Sarah barely left his side, even took leave from work. And now $4,500 to some Harris. “Mom,” James decided.
“Doesn’t it seem weird that Sarah’s changed lately?” “Changed how?” Margaret paused, mixing the dough. “Well, she’s out more, new clothes, spa visits…” Margaret wiped her hands on a towel and studied her son.
“Lord, Jimmy! A woman needs to treat herself sometimes. She’s not just a wife and mother—she’s a woman. Or do you mind her looking good?” Her voice took on a stern edge.
James knew that tone from childhood. Margaret used it when she thought he was being foolish. “No, of course not.
It’s just… she used to discuss big purchases with me.” “And did you make time to listen?” Margaret’s voice turned unexpectedly sharp. “How many times this month have you two just talked? Not about bills or Lily’s school, but just talked?”
James was silent. She was right—he couldn’t recall the last time he and Sarah had sat together, like they used to, talking about everything, making plans, dreaming. “I…” he started, but the phone buzzed again. A call.
Sarah. James stepped into the hallway, closing the kitchen door. “Yes, honey?” “Sorry, hon, I’ll be super late tonight,” Sarah’s voice sounded weary. “Rachel’s computer crashed. We need to restore the database.
Might be an all-nighter.” She’s lying. For the first time in fourteen years, he knew his wife was lying. A lump formed in his throat. “Can I come help?”