My husband went on a business trip to another city for a month, and I decided to move his favorite potted cactus to another location, but I accidentally broke it while carrying it. But what I discovered in the broken pot changed my life forever. How strange that our lives can be changed by completely random events.

Small, ordinary, almost insignificant things suddenly turn everything upside down, and then nothing stays 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 a whole month.

He worked for a large construction company, and such long absences were frequent. I had grown accustomed to his absence, although, of course, I always missed him. Taking advantage of the fact that I was alone in the apartment, I decided to do a little furniture rearrangement. I’d been wanting to change the decor a bit for a while, give it a fresh look, but John was conservative and preferred everything to be in its place.

He was especially reverent about his cactus collection, which he’d been collecting for several years. On the windowsill of our room, there was a row of thorny plants of different shapes and sizes. John cared for them with a special tenderness, which he rarely showed me.

Among all this thorny company, one cactus stood out. Large, with fleshy leaves and long, sharp needles. John called it “General.”

This cactus appeared in our house about three years ago, and my husband always treated it with special affection. Even on business trips, he left me detailed instructions on how to care for it. It was strange, of course, this attachment to a prickly windowsill dweller, but I didn’t think much of it.

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 had been obsessed with the idea that it would look much better next to the window.

Perhaps if I move it now, John, upon his return, will appreciate my efforts and won’t object to such changes. I moved the dresser away from the wall and began to slowly move it around the room. It turned out not to be as easy as I thought.

The massive oak furniture yielded with difficulty to my efforts, but I stubbornly pushed it toward my goal. Finally, breathing heavily, I installed the dresser in its new place. Exactly where I wanted it.

Right under 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 immediately took on a more harmonious look. But one thing bothered me: the cacti.

Now they were right on top of the dresser, and every time I opened the drawers, I risked touching those thorny plants. I needed to move them. But where? I looked for a suitable place.

I could move them to the living room windowsill, but my violets were already there. There was no room for them in the kitchen either. After some thought, I decided to temporarily place the cacti on a shelf in the hallway.

The light there wasn’t as good as in the bedroom, but it was only temporary. When John returns, we’ll decide together where to put them. Carefully, trying not to prick myself, I began to move 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 came to the General, I hesitated. This cactus was not only the largest, but also the thorniest.

Also, its clay pot seemed quite heavy. First, I put on gardening gloves to protect my hands from the needles. Then, I carefully grabbed the bottom and lifted it.

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

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

This photo always evokes a warm feeling in me, but lately it was mixed with a slight sadness. Something had changed between us in six years of marriage. The lightness and openness with which we once treated each other were gone.

I was so absorbed in my thoughts, staring at the photograph, that I didn’t notice the corner of the rug I tripped over. The pot slipped from my hands and fell to the floor with a thud. The clay cracked, scattering into several large fragments, the earth spilled out in a shapeless heap, and the poor General fell sideways, losing several of his impressive spires.

Oh, John will be furious. I immediately imagined his disgusted face, his reproaches, perhaps even his icy silence, which was always worse than any words. But there was nothing I could do; I had to fix the situation.

I ran to the kitchen for a dustpan and a brush to collect the scattered soil. When I returned to the bedroom, I knelt in front of the accident site and began carefully raking the dirt over the dustpan. And then my gaze fell on something strange among the clods.

It was a small metallic object that gleamed in the rays of the morning sun. At first, I thought it was just trash that had accidentally gotten into the pot when I repotted the plant. But when I picked it up, I realized it was a key.

A neat little key, similar to the ones you use to open mailboxes or small boxes. Where did I get a key in a cactus pot? I turned it over in my hands, puzzled. Maybe John accidentally dropped it there when he repotted the plant? But if so, why didn’t he take it out? I set the key aside and continued scooping up the soil.

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

Inside the bag was a USB flash drive. An ordinary one, black, with no identifying marks. What was it doing in the pot? And why had John hidden it there? Questions plagued me, but there were no answers.

I left the bag with the USB drive next to the key and continued searching the soil, carefully examining each clump. And my efforts weren’t in vain. At the bottom of the pot, almost at the bottom, I found another object.

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

Sure enough, there was a small hole on one side, perfect for the found key. My heart was pounding. What kind of hiding place had my husband set up in some random cactus pot? What had he been hiding from me all these years? I looked at the little key and 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 rummage through them without him knowing. On the other hand, why was he keeping something in such a strange place, hiding it from me? There had never been any secrets in our family. At least, that’s what I thought until that moment.

After a moment of hesitation, curiosity won out. 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 cover completely. Inside was a thin, tightly rolled piece of paper. I carefully removed it and unfolded it.

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

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

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

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

Sarah? Who’s Sarah? And David? Is that the boy’s name? But what does John have to do with this? Why did he hide this photo? I put the photo back in the box and grabbed the USB drive. Now I wanted to know even more about what was inside. But for that, I needed a computer.

I left the cactus and the soil scattered on the floor and hurried to the living room, where our laptop was. My hands were shaking a little as I turned it on and inserted the USB drive. A window with the USB drive’s contents appeared on the screen.

Several folders with incomprehensible names. Numbers, letters, no clue as to their contents. I opened the first folder.

Inside were PDF documents. I clicked on the first one, and a scanned passport appeared on the screen. Neither mine nor John’s.

The passport was issued in the name of David Miller. Date of birth: June 10, 2009.

The same day as indicated in the photo. The next document was the birth certificate of this same David. Mother.

Sarah Miller. And the father’s name paralyzed me. Father…

John Anderson. My husband. My vision went dark; the room blurred before my eyes.

How is this possible? John has a son. A son he never told me about. And a wife.

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

A contract for the sale of an apartment in both names. Insurance policy for all three of them: John, Sarah, and their son, David.

It was like a punch in the gut. Is John married? Does he have another family? A child? But how is this possible? After all, we’ve been married for six years. I frantically compared the dates.

We married Sarah in May 2009. And John in September 2017. It turns out he was already married when we got married? All these years!

Who? A mistress? A second wife? A person without official status. My head was spinning from the amount of information and emotions overwhelming me. But I forced myself to keep studying the contents of the USB drive.

In the next folder, I found photographs. Dozens, hundreds of photographs. And she was in every one of them.

Sarah. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the child, sometimes. With John.

Here are the three of them on the beach. Here celebrating a birthday. Here on Christmas morning at kindergarten, proud parents filming their son’s performance.

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

I didn’t know what to think. How did John manage to live a double life? How did he manage to divide his time between two families? And most importantly, why did he do it? 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, a certain vigilance in his gaze. “If you’re watching this video, Sarah, it means something went wrong,” he began. “I want you to know that.”

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

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

I promise.” The video ended, and I continued staring at the screen, not believing what I was seeing or hearing. I love more than anything in the world.

And what about me? Where do I fit into this picture of the world? I opened a few more videos. Some showed ordinary family moments. The child’s birthday, some trips, get-togethers at home.

In others, John addressed the camera again, talking about some love affairs, potential danger, and the need to be careful. He spoke incoherently, dropping hints, clearly afraid to call a spade a spade. I scrolled to the end of the folder and found a video from last month.

Just a few weeks ago. In it, John was standing in a room that 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 like. Give Davey a kiss for me and tell him Dad will be back soon. To Miami.

But John told me he was going to Chicago for a meeting with partners. He lied to me. However, after everything I’d seen, this deception seemed insignificant.

I closed the video and leaned back in my chair. Absolute chaos reigned in my head. I couldn’t accept that the man I had lived with for six years, whom I trusted, whom I loved, had been leading a double life all this time.

He was the husband of two women, the father of a child whose existence I didn’t even suspect. How is this possible? How did he manage to divide his time between us? I tried to remember how often John was away from home. Business trips.

He traveled constantly on business. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a week, and sometimes for a month. I never questioned the necessity of these trips.

His job required frequent travel, and I assumed it was normal. And now it turns out these business trips. Or at least some of them.

Were nothing more than shared time with the other family. This thought was so far-fetched, so unbelievable, that I couldn’t accept it. I opened the folder with the documents again and began to methodically go through them.

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

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

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

I needed fresh air. I shut down my computer, took out the USB drive, and walked over to the window. I opened it wide and took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

What should I do now? How should I react to such a discovery? My first impulse was to immediately call John and demand an explanation. But I held back. In that state, it was unlikely I could have a constructive dialogue.

Besides, maybe it would be better to find out for myself first, gather as much information as possible before confronting him. My gaze fell on the clock. Almost noon.

I’d spent several hours in front of the computer, unaware of how time was passing. My stomach growled treacherously, reminding me that I hadn’t had breakfast yet. But the thought of eating disgusted me.

How can I think about food when my life has been shattered, like that unfortunate cactus pot? The pot. I’d completely forgotten about it. The soil was still scattered across the bedroom floor, and the poor cactus was lying on its side.

I needed to clean everything up, but I didn’t have the strength. Instead, I went back to the computer and inserted the USB drive. This time I decided to carefully examine all the files, all the documents, to get a complete picture.

Among other things, I found bank statements. The accounts were opened in Sarah Miller’s name, but the regular deposits came from John’s card. The amounts were quite significant…

About the same as his monthly earnings. It turns out that all these years he split his income between two families. But he always said he didn’t earn as much as he’d liked.

We saved, set aside for the future, and denied each other some things. But in fact, he only gave half of his income to another woman and their son. I tried to remember when I first noticed something odd about John’s behavior.

But nothing specific came to mind. He had always been a loving husband, calling me from business trips, bringing me gifts, and taking an interest in my affairs. Yes, lately he had become more withdrawn, sometimes distracted, but I attributed it to fatigue and work problems. How blind I was!

How I didn’t notice the obvious signs. Now, looking back, I remember a lot of details that should have alerted me. His strange calls, which he preferred not to make from home, but on the street or in the car.

His unexpected changes in his business travel schedule. He would return early and then delay without much explanation. His reluctance to have children, even though we used to talk about it naturally.

A child. Juan already had one child. A son.

He must be about 14 now. A teenager. And all these years I thought we were putting off having children for financial reasons and a desire to get ahead first.

These thoughts brought tears to my eyes. I felt cheated, used, cut off from his real life. Who had I been to him all these years? Entertainment? An alternative? Or just a convenient cover for his shady dealings? I remembered the strange video where John talked about some danger, about the need to be careful.

Perhaps his double life was related to something illegal. Perhaps he was involved in shady dealings. Work.

John always said he worked for a construction company, managing the supply of materials and negotiating with partners. But was it true? I’d never been in his office, nor had I met his colleagues. He always separated his work life from his personal life.

I decided to check it out. There should be documents related to his job 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 he worked for. And the sector was different. It wasn’t construction, but logistics.

International transport. The more I delved into the documents, the more confused I became. Some contracts were written in foreign languages, with companies from countries I knew next to nothing about.

The amounts mentioned in these documents made me doubt their legality. Where did a modest supply manager get such money? In one of the last folders, I found something that finally made me lose track. They were passport scans.

Not one, but several. And they were all issued in John’s name, but with different surnames: Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson.

Why does a person need multiple passports with different surnames? The answer came naturally, but I was afraid to even mentally formulate it. It was already getting dark when I finally pulled myself away from the computer. My head was buzzing from the amount of information, and my eyes were tired from staring at the screen.

I felt devastated, as if I’d been squeezed a lemon. But at the same time, deep inside me, a determination was born. I had to uncover the whole truth, no matter how bitter it was.

First, I needed to verify whether Sarah and her son David really existed, or if it was some sophisticated fabrication. The photographs and videos could be fake, the documents fabricated.

I needed irrefutable proof. I took out my phone and opened social media. If this woman is real, she should have accounts, photos, and friends.

I typed “Sarah Miller” into the search bar and got many results. Too many to view each profile. I needed to narrow down my search.

I returned to the USB drive and found Sarah’s date of birth on the documents: February 27, 1985. She was three years older than me.

I added this information to the search, and the results narrowed down considerably. Now I needed to compare the photos with the one I found in the box. After a few minutes of searching, I found it.

The profile was private, with minimal personal information, but the main 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 on the box, which was natural enough. Browsing through her posts, which were available even without adding her as a friend, I saw several photos of a teenage boy. He looked strikingly similar to John.

The same eyes, the same lip shape, even his smile. Dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth, something I loved so much about my husband. There was no doubt about it. Sarah and David existed.

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

I checked 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, loving husband.”

May all your dreams come true.” John’s birthday was last week. He celebrated it on a business trip.

Or rather, as I now understood, with his other family. Bitterness and resentment flooded me with renewed force. I threw the phone onto the couch and burst into tears.

I was sobbing my head off, like I hadn’t cried in years. All the pent-up tension, the shock of discovery, the pain of betrayal. All of this spilled out in a torrent of tears. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, giving free rein to my emotions.

Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. When I finally calmed down, it was already dark outside. I felt empty, but at the same time strangely liberated.

As if I had cried not only the pain, but also part of my old personality. That naive, trusting woman who blindly believed in her husband. Wiping away my tears, I answered again.

Now I needed to find out everything I could about Sarah. Who is she? What does she do? How long has she known John? Even though the profile was confidential, I managed to find out something from public information. Her place of work.

A company, East Trans. Judging by the name, related to transportation or logistics. The same sector in which, I learned from the documents, John worked.

A few friends, common interests. Nothing special, nothing to explain why John was leading a double life, I thought.

If Sarah really considers herself John’s legal wife, she probably doesn’t know I exist. Or does she? Maybe she’s the same victim of deception as I am. I needed to talk to her. Directly, face to face.

But how to arrange it? I couldn’t just send her a message. “Good morning, I’m your husband’s wife.” Let’s get together and talk about the situation.”

It seemed like the beginning of a cheap melodrama. But I needed answers. And it seemed Sarah was the only person, besides John, who could give them to me.

I went back to the documents on the flash drive and found the address of the apartment Sarah was renting. Boston, Academic Street, House 15, Apartment 42. I wrote down the address, trying to decide what to do.

Go to Boston? Right now? It seemed crazy. But sitting around waiting for John’s return, pretending nothing was wrong, 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 realized I couldn’t believe a word of it. The decision came naturally. I’ll go to Boston.

Tomorrow. I’ll find Sarah and talk to her. Maybe she knows more than I do. Maybe she herself is a victim of John’s deception.

Or maybe she’s his accomplice in some dark business. In any case, I had to Discovering the truth. After making the decision, I felt a strange relief.

At least now I had a plan of action, something concrete to hold on to in the midst of this chaos. I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. Despite my lack of appetite, I needed to eat something.

The day had been tough, and the next day promised to be even tougher. I would need strength. I opened the refrigerator, mechanically took out groceries, and began preparing a simple dinner.

My hands moved on autopilot, making familiar movements, while my thoughts continued to revolve around the discovered secret. How could John lead a double life? How did he manage to lie to both of us without arousing suspicion? And most importantly: Why? Why did he need two families, two homes, two lives? The financial aspect also tormented me.

Supporting two families required a considerable amount of money. Where had John gotten so much money? A normal job at a logistics company would hardly provide such an income. Perhaps he was involved in something illegal.

I remembered his strange video message to Sarah, where he spoke of some danger, of the need to be careful. Perhaps he was connected to the criminal world? Perhaps this whole double life was part of some complex plan? But what? The questions multiplied, and there were no answers. I realized that without a conversation with John or Sarah, I would remain in the dark.

But I couldn’t wait for my husband to return. Too many lies, too many secrets. I had to act now.

After dinner, I started 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 be 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 shards of the pot, swept up the scattered soil, and placed the cactus in a new pot. The damaged plant looked a little shriveled, but seemed quite viable. It’s funny how a small thing like a broken pot could bring about such significant changes in my life.

After finishing cleaning, I took a shower and went to bed. Despite my tiredness, I couldn’t get to sleep. I tossed and turned, mentally replaying the day’s events, trying to grasp that my life, which I had considered quite prosperous, was actually built on lies.

Around three in the morning, I finally fell into a restless sleep, filled with 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, holding a child, looking at me with a sad smile. I woke up with my alarm clock at six in the morning. I felt a heavy weight on my head after a sleepless night, but my determination hadn’t abandoned me.

I quickly got ready, called a taxi, and went to the station. The train to Boston left at 7:30. I sat by the window and prepared for the three-hour journey. Through the window, the outskirts of the city could be seen, replaced by fields and forests, but I paid little attention to them. My thoughts were occupied with the impending meeting with Sarah.

What would I say to her? How would I explain my appearance? And most importantly, how would she react to 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? She probably wouldn’t believe it.

She would think it was a ridiculous joke or a mistake. I needed proof. Something to convince Sarah of the truth of my words.

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

Here’s a photo from our honeymoon in Italy. And here’s last year’s New Year’s. John, wearing a silly Santa hat, hugging me by the shoulders.

These photos should convince Sarah I’m not a fantasist. But are they enough? Maybe I should take the marriage certificate? It was at home, in the document drawer. No, I decided. Photos are enough.

Also, I had the USB drive with the documents I found in the flowerpot. If necessary, I’ll show them to Sarah. The train arrived in Boston just in time.

10:25 a.m. I stepped out onto the noisy platform of the central station and immersed myself in the bustle of the big city. I’d never been to this city before, and in another situation, I would have been impressed by the magnitude and energy of the metropolis.

But I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing anymore. I was focused on my goal. I called a taxi and gave him the address.

15, Academic Street. The driver nodded and drove me through the city. The trip took about an hour due to traffic, and during that time I tried to gather my thoughts and prepare for the upcoming conversation.

But the closer we got to our destination, the more excited I became. What if he wasn’t home? What if that same guy, David, opened the door for me? What would I say? Or worse, what if I ran into John there? After all, maybe he wasn’t on a business trip, as he’d told me, but here with his other family. Thinking about that warmed me up…

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

The taxi was already approaching the indicated address. A typical Boston skyscraper in a residential area. I paid the driver and got out of the car.

For a moment, I was overcome with the desire to turn around and leave, forget all this, return to my normal life. But I realized that the old life would no longer exist. Too much had changed in the last 24 hours.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and walked in. Apartment 42 was on the seventh floor. I took the elevator up, feeling my heart pounding every second.

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

Several long seconds passed. No movement, no sound. I pressed it again, more insistently.

And again, silence. It seemed no one was home. I looked around, not knowing what to do.

Wait? But how long? An hour or two, all day? What if no one shows up? I had no other address to find Sarah. And then the door of the neighboring apartment opened a crack, and an older woman with a curious look appeared through the gap. “Do you live with the Millers?” she asked, looking at me appraisingly.

“Yes, with Sarah,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound confident. “They’re not home,” the neighbor reported. “They’ve been at the cabin all weekend.”

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

“And who are you to them?” the neighbor asked curiously. I was confused for a moment. Who was I to them? No one.

A stranger interfering in someone else’s life. But I couldn’t tell the truth, of course. I’m Sarah’s colleague, so I improvised as I went along.

I need to give her important documents. “Do you know where her house is?” the neighbor asked, narrowing her eyes, obviously doubting the veracity of my words. But then, apparently, she decided there was nothing criminal about my question.

“Somewhere in rural Massachusetts, I think, in the Springfield district,” she replied. “I can’t say for sure.” She wasn’t interested. “But if you want, I can give you her cell phone.”

I have it just in case. “That would be a great help,” I replied gratefully. The neighbor disappeared into the apartment and returned a minute later with a piece of paper with the phone number written on it.

“Here, take it,” she said, handing me the article. “I hope it’s nothing urgent.” “No, nothing that can’t wait until Monday,” I assured her.

“Thank you for your help.” The old woman nodded and closed the door, and I stood on the landing, a piece of paper in my hand. Now I had a way to contact Sarah directly.

But was it worth calling her? What would I say over the phone? Such news doesn’t come from a distance. I went downstairs and left the entrance. The day was warm and sunny, a typical summer day.

People around me were hurrying, cars were making noise, children were playing. Normal, everyday life was a stark contrast to the chaos in my soul. I found the nearest cafe and went in to have a snack and think about what to do.

I ordered a salad and tea, took out my phone, and looked at the number. Should I call or not? I could simply say I’m calling for work, introduce myself as a colleague, like I did to the neighbor. And then, during the conversation, find out exactly where the cabin is and go there.

But wouldn’t that look strange and suspicious? While I was thinking, my order arrived. I chewed the salad mechanically, barely tasting it, and continued to weigh the pros and cons. The decision was unexpected.

I’ll call John right now. I’ll tell him I know about his second family and ask for an explanation.

After all, he was the main culprit in this whole situation, so why not start sorting things out with him? I dialed my husband’s number, preparing for a difficult conversation. But after several beeps, it went to voicemail. John wasn’t available.

Perhaps he was in a meeting, on the subway, or simply didn’t want to answer calls. In any case, this path turned out to be a dead end. I went back to the original plan.

I needed to find a way to see Sarah in person. And if that meant going to the country house in Springfield, then so be it. I opened the map on my phone and looked up where Springfield was.

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

Springfield. Not the most accurate location for searches. I looked again at the written phone number.

Maybe I should call after all? What do I have to lose? Determined, I dialed the number. My heart was beating so loudly it seemed every customer in the café could hear it. After several beeps, a female voice came through.

Hello? It was the same voice I’d heard on the video on the flash drive. The voice of my husband’s wife, much longer than mine. “Hello, Sarah,” I said, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.

“Yes, it’s me,” she replied. “And who is this?” I hesitated for a moment. How should I introduce myself? Under what pretext should I make an appointment? “My name is Laura,” I said, without revealing my real name.

I. I need to meet you. It’s about John. There was a pause on the other end of the line.

Then Sarah asked cautiously. “John? You? A colleague?” “Not exactly,” I answered evasively.

It’s a personal matter. Very important. I’d prefer to discuss this in person, not over the phone.

Again a pause. I almost physically felt her distrust and alertness. “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 cabin, I said. Your neighbor said you’re in the Springfield district.

I could come 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 need?” I understood I was scaring her, but I saw no other way to arrange a meeting.

Please, don’t be afraid, I tried to calm her down. I won’t hurt you. I just need to talk to you about John.

About your husband. I said the last words with special emphasis, hoping they would make her think. And again, silence.

This time more. Finally, she spoke, and her voice sounded tense. Where do you know John from? I took a deep breath.

The moment of truth. Should I tell her right now or wait until we meet in person? I’m his wife, I answered simply. We’ve been married for six years. On the other end of the line, I heard a strange sound, like muffled crying.

Then the connection was cut off. Sarah hung up. I stared at the phone screen, not knowing what to do.

Call her back? But what should I say? She’s obviously shocked, maybe she doesn’t believe me. And it’s unlikely she wants to continue the conversation. But I needed to see her.

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

Apparently, she decided to avoid further communication. Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad will go to the mountain. I decided to go to the Springfield district to find her cabin.

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

On the train, I continued to ponder the situation. What if Sarah really didn’t know I existed? What if the news about her husband’s second wife shocked her as much as it did me? Perhaps that’s why she hung up. Out of shock and disbelief.

But on the other hand, what if she knew? What if she was aware of John’s double life and actively participated in it? Perhaps they had cheated on me together all these years? At these thoughts, a wave of anger washed over me. How could they? How could John do this to me? And to her? Didn’t he enjoy living a lie, cheating on two women, playing two cards? The train pulled into Springfield station, and I stepped off the platform. Now came the hard part.

To find Sarah’s house in the entire district, filled with rural settlements. I approached the station’s information desk, hoping to find a map of the district or a list of rural cooperatives. And, sure enough, such a map existed.

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

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

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

In an hour, at the Forest Glade café on the outskirts of Springfield. “Do you know where it is?” I replied, saying I’d find it with the navigator. Fine, she continued in the same tense voice.

“So… Come alone. No witnesses or police. This is a conversation between us.”

“Sure,” I assured her. “I’ll go alone.” The connection cut out, and I stood on the platform, phone in hand, hardly believing my luck.

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

I found the indicated café on my navigation system. It was about two kilometers from the station. I could walk or take a taxi.

I chose the latter to make sure I wasn’t late for the meeting. The taxi arrived at the café exactly 45 minutes after the conversation with Sarah. I had 15 minutes left before the agreed-upon time.

I paid the driver and got out of the car. The Forest Glade Café was a small wooden building on the edge of the forest. Nearby, there was a parking lot for several cars.

The place was quiet and secluded, ideal for the conversation that awaited Sarah and me. I walked in and looked around. There were only a few visitors in the café.

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’d only seen her in photographs. Sarah.

She saw me too and nodded slightly, inviting me closer. I headed to their table, my heart pounding. Here she is, the woman who was my husband’s wife for much longer than I had. The woman who bore him a son.

The woman whose existence changed my life completely. Up close, she looked older than in the photographs. Dark hair with a hint of gray, tired eyes, and wrinkles at the corners of her lips.

But still beautiful, with a special, understated elegance. “Hello,” I said, stopping at their table. “I’m Laura.”

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

“Is that true?” I nodded and took my passport with the marriage seal out of my bag. I gave it to her. “My real name is Emily,” I said. “Emily Anderson.”

To my husband. Look.” Sarah took the passport, carefully studied the page with my details, and then turned to the page with the marriage registration stamp.

Her face remained impassive, but I noticed how the knuckles of her fingers, gripping the document, turned white. “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 me back the passport.

We were married in 2009. Even before David was born. Sixteen years.

That meant that, by the time we got married, John 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, though the answer was obvious.

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

At least not with me. “How did you know?” she asked after a pause. I told her about the cactus, the broken pot, the USB drive, and the box I found.

With each word, her face tightened. “This cactus,” she said when I finished the story. “It was always with him.”

For as long as I can remember, John never left her side of the family, even taking her on business trips. I always wondered about this attachment to the plant, but I attributed it to quirks in his character.

“And what was on the USB drive?” she asked. “What did you find there?” I told her about the documents, the photographs, and the videos. About how John spoke to her in those videos, telling her about the potential danger and the need to be careful.

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

“And he didn’t say he was recording anything for me. That’s odd,” I agreed. “Why record video messages if not to show them to the recipient?” Sarah said thoughtfully, tapping her fingers on the table. “He was always secretive,” she said finally.

Even with me. Especially in recent years. All these business trips, late returns, strange phone conversations.

I suspected he had someone, but I thought it was just a fling. And it turns out… It turns out he had a second life.

There was such bitterness in her voice that I felt genuinely sorry for this woman. She seemed as much a victim of John’s deception as I was. “And what about her job?” I asked. “According to your information, what does she do?” “She works for a logistics company,” Sarah replied. “East Trans.”

She handles international transport. Constant business trips, meetings with partners. I got used to her not being home often.

And what did she tell you? “She works for a construction company,” I replied. “She supplies materials, negotiates with contractors.” We looked at each other, and in that moment, a strange understanding dawned between us. Two women deceived by the same man had suddenly become allies.

“So he lied to you and me,” Sarah said. “The only question is: why? Why did he need two families, two lives? What’s the point?” I shook my head.

I don’t know. But it seems to me it’s not just that. Judging from the videos I’ve seen, he was afraid of something.

He talked about some danger, about the need to be careful. Maybe he’s involved in something illegal, Sarah thought.

“Possibly,” she said finally. “He’s been very nervous lately. He often checked to see if anyone was following him, and he forbade David and me from posting 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 downplayed it, saying it was just old documents that might come in handy someday. We both fell silent, lost in thought.

The situation was getting more and more confusing. Who was John, really? What was he doing? And more importantly, where was he now? Where is John now? I asked. According to him. Sarah shrugged.

On a business trip to Philadelphia. I’ll be back in two weeks. He told me he was going to New York for a month, I wrote it down. Turns out he could be anywhere.

Or with a third family that neither you nor I know about. Sarah shook her head. No, not that.

Two families. That’s already too complicated to manage. Three.

That’s impossible, even for a master liar like John. I agreed with her. In fact, leading a double life is difficult enough.

A triple would seem unbelievable to me. There’s something else, I said after a pause. On the flash drive, I found scans of several passports.

All in John’s name, but with different last names. Anderson, Miller, Smith, Johnson. Sarah shuddered.

Miller. That’s my last name. John adopted him when we got married.

He used to be Anderson, but in our marriage he’s Anderson too, I objected. We looked at each other, and I saw the same understanding in his eyes as I did. “False documents,” he said quietly. He uses different names in different situations.

Like a movie spy or a criminal? I nodded. It explained a lot. And at the same time, it explained nothing.

Why does an ordinary person need false documents? The more complicated the situation became. We’d been sitting in the café for over an hour, and during that time we managed to order and get a cup of tea each, but the conversation didn’t end.

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

Were there any oddities in your life with him? I asked. Anything that aroused suspicion, that made you think? Sarah thought. There were calls, she answered after a pause. Strange calls, after which he would get nervous, irritable.

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

I’ve had similar cases too, I nodded. And what else? Packages. Sometimes I received packages with no return address. He never opened them in front of me; he always took them to his office.

And when I asked what was inside, he said they were work materials, technical documentation, or samples. Sarah nodded. We had packages like that too.

Once, I accidentally opened one and thought they were books I’d 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 at me. I remembered that in my life with John, there had also been a similar episode. I took his work briefcase by mistake, and when I opened it, I found some documents in a language similar to Arabic.

John got really angry, snatched the bag from me, and was sadder than a cloud all night. We came to the conclusion that our husband was clearly involved in something he didn’t want to reveal. Something that could be related to international contacts, possibly illegal operations.

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

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

How can I trust him after that? How can I remain his wife? I understood his feelings. I felt something similar. Six years of my life turned out to be built on lies.

Everything I knew about my husband turned out to be false, a facade behind which hid a completely different reality. “But you have a son,” I commented. “David. He needs a father.”

Sarah smiled bitterly. A father who lies and cheats? Who could be a criminal? No, David doesn’t need such an example. He needs an honest and decent person to look up to.

And John? John isn’t like that. I couldn’t agree more. After everything we learned, the image of John is that of an honest and decent family man.

He collapsed like a house of cards. In his place was a completely different person. Deceitful, hypocritical, possibly dangerous.

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

But I’m definitely not going through with this charade. I can’t live with someone anymore who, as it turned out, I don’t know at all. We exchanged calls and agreed to keep each other informed of everything that happened.

Especially if John shows up at one of our houses. As I was about to leave, Sarah suddenly grabbed my hand. “Wait,” she said.

There’s something else. You mentioned the box you found in the cactus pot. What was inside besides the photograph? “Just the photograph,” I replied. And should there be something else?

Sarah frowned. In the video you watched, John mentioned something about documents in the box. About bank accounts, real estate, insurance.

But you didn’t find anything like that? I shook my head. No, just the photograph. Maybe he meant the documents on the USB drive? It’s possible, Sarah agreed, but she didn’t seem convinced.

Or maybe the box has a false bottom? It hadn’t occurred to me. A false bottom? Like in spy movies. But considering everything we learned about John, it didn’t seem so unbelievable.

“Are you carrying the box?” Sarah asked. “No,” I replied. “I left it at home and only took the USB drive.” Sarah nodded.

Understood. When you get home, examine it carefully. Maybe there’s some hidden mechanism, a hiding place.”

I promised I would. We said goodbye, hugging like old friends, even though we’d only known each other for a couple of hours. It’s funny how common misfortunes can bring people together.

On the way back to Boston, I thought about our conversation with Sarah. She seemed sincere, as shocked and confused as I was. Apparently, she truly didn’t know I existed, just as I didn’t know hers.

We were both victims of the same deception, puppets in the hands of a master manipulator we considered our husband. But who was John, really? What was hidden behind all his masks? And most importantly, did he really have a dark past or present involving illegal activities, as we suspected? I returned to Boston late at night. It was already around 10:00 when I got onto the platform at the central station.

Tired, emotionally drained, but determined to get to the bottom of the truth, I decided to spend the night in a hotel and take the first train home in the morning. I needed to carefully examine the box again, study all the documents on the USB drive, maybe find more clues. And then…

Then I decided what to do. How to rebuild my life after everything I’d learned. I found a hotel near the station.

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

But despite my tiredness, I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts kept revolving around John, his double life, his secrets. I decided to review the contents of the USB drive again.

Maybe I’ll find something I missed the first time. Something that will help solve this puzzle. I opened my laptop, inserted the USB drive, and began methodically reviewing file after file.

I paid special attention to the videos where John was addressing Sarah, talking about the potential danger and the need to be careful. In one of the videos, from last year, John seemed especially tense. He spoke quickly, nervously, often looking 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 return as promised. In the box are all the necessary documents.

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

And remember, I’ve always loved only you and David. Everything I did, I did for you.” The video ended, and I sat there staring at the screen.

John spoke of a box with documents inside. But in the box I found in the cactus pot, there was only a photograph. No documents, no certificates, nothing that could guarantee Sarah and David’s safety.

And who is this Victor? John didn’t mention his last name or provide 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 multiplied, but the answers didn’t. I kept looking through the files, hoping to find at least some clue, at least 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 exact same name John mentioned in the video message to Sarah.

I tried opening the file with different programs, but to no avail. It seemed to be encrypted or password-protected. This only fueled my curiosity…

What secret could there be? What important thing was John keeping in this file? I remembered that the USB drive had passport scans with different surnames. Perhaps one of them belonged to the mysterious Victor? I opened the passport folder again and examined each document carefully. And, sure enough, one of them had the name: Victor Smith.

But the photo was of John. Turns out, Victor is one of my husband’s alter egos.

One of his many personalities. My head was spinning with all these discoveries. Who was really the man I’d lived with for six years? An ordinary manager? A master of a double life? A criminal with multiple passports? Or someone else I didn’t even suspect? It was well after midnight when I finally shut down my computer and went to bed.

Fatigue took its toll, and almost immediately I fell into a deep, restless sleep, filled with strange visions and vague fears. I was awakened by the sound of an incoming message on my phone. It was early morning, just outside the window, dawn had just begun to break.

I picked up my 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’re coming too? I called her immediately, but the phone was out of range. I tried sending her a text.

It wasn’t delivered. What was going on? Who could have forced open the cabin door? And more importantly, does this have to do with our conversation about John? Not knowing what else to do, I decided to go back to Springfield, find Sarah’s cabin, and make sure she and her son were okay.

Maybe it was paranoia, but after everything I’d learned in the past two days, any oddity seemed like a potential threat. Quickly gearing up, I left the hotel and hurried to the station. Luckily, the first train to Springfield was leaving in 20 minutes.

I bought a ticket and sat in a half-empty car. The journey seemed endless. I couldn’t find a seat, unconcerned.

What if something had really happened to Sarah? What if all that talk about danger wasn’t just empty words, but a real warning? Finally, the train arrived in Springfield. I headed immediately to the taxi stand, intending to go to the Forest Glade Café where we 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 the Woodland Glade?” he asked. “It’s a bit far.”

And why do you need to be there so early? The café is still closed. I’m looking for a friend, I explained. She’s in the cabin around here, but I don’t know the exact address. We agreed to meet at the café, but she doesn’t answer my calls.

The taxi driver nodded understandingly. “And what’s your friend’s name? Maybe I know her. I’ve been driving taxis around here for 20 years; I know all the villagers.”

“Sarah Miller,” I replied, not holding out much hope for luck. “With my son David.” To my surprise, the taxi driver’s face lit up. “Oh, the Millers.”

Of course I know them. They’re good people. Their cabin is in Sunny, just behind the Woodland Glade.

Do you want a ride? I couldn’t believe my luck. Is it really going to be that easy? “Yes, please, take me to them,” I agreed. The drive lasted about 20 minutes.

We drove past the closed Forest Glade café, turned onto a dirt road, and soon found ourselves at the gates of a rural settlement with a sign that read “Sunny.” “The Millers’ cabin is that green one with white shutters,” the taxi driver pointed out, stopping the car on the sidewalk. The strange thing was that their car wasn’t there.

Maybe they’ve already left? I paid the taxi driver and got out of the car. Sure enough, there was no car to be seen on the plot. Maybe Sarah and David had already left? Or hadn’t they come to the house this weekend, and the message was fake? But why did Sarah write about the broken gate? And why didn’t she answer my calls or texts? I approached the gate and gently pushed it open.

Unlocked. It seemed odd. If Sarah was afraid for her safety, shouldn’t she have locked all the doors and gates? The plot was well-kept, with immaculate flowerbeds and flowerbeds.

The two-story house with a terrace looked cozy and well-maintained. I approached the front door and immediately noticed signs of burglary. The lock was broken, and the door was only held by its top hinge.

My heart pounded with anxiety. Something had really happened. Someone had broken into the door.

But where’s Sarah? Where’s David? I carefully pushed the door open and entered. “Sarah?” I knocked. “David? Is anyone home?” The answer was silence.

The house seemed empty. I crossed the hallway and entered the living room. There was complete disarray.

Overturned furniture, torn-out drawers, contents scattered on the floor. It seemed someone was searching for something, and doing so in a hurry, with no regard for safety. I went up to the second floor. The same picture.

Devastation, chaos, scattered things. In one of the rooms, apparently David’s bedroom, were textbooks, sports uniforms, and posters ripped from the walls. In another, probably Sarah’s bedroom, the contents of the wardrobe were gutted on the bed, with the nightstand drawers ripped out.

What happened here? Who organized this pogrom? And most importantly, where were Sarah and David? I went downstairs and examined the kitchen. The mess was less, but still noticeable. On the table were two cups of unfinished tea.

So they were here when the break-in occurred. Perhaps they heard something and tried to hide? But where? And why didn’t Sarah answer my calls or texts? I went out onto the back deck. From there, I could see the garden and a small wood behind it.

Perhaps they ran over there? They hid among the trees. Sarah. I shouted. David.

It’s me, Emily. Are you here? In reply. All I could hear was the rustling of leaves and the birds singing.

It seemed like no one was on the plot. But where could they have gone? They didn’t have a car; the nearest settlement was several kilometers away. I returned to the house, feeling a growing anxiety.

Clearly, something had happened, something bad. But what exactly, and how did it relate to John and his secrets? Scanning the living room, I noticed something shiny under the overturned armchair. I bent down and picked it up.

It was a cell phone. The screen was cracked, but the device was still working. I pressed the button and saw the screensaver.

A photo of Sarah with David. It was her phone, the same one she’d sent me her morning text from. So I was here when he texted me.

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

Or forced her to flee. The thought sent shivers down my spine. What if Sarah and David hadn’t just gone into hiding? What if they’d been kidnapped? What if all that talk about danger wasn’t just empty words, but a real warning? But who could have kidnapped them? And why? Does this have to do with John, with his secret affairs? Or with our meeting yesterday? Maybe someone was watching us, discovered 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 is in a bigamy relationship, disappeared with their son after our meeting, where we discussed his double life.

It seemed like the ravings of a madman. I decided to examine the house again, hoping to find some clue, some trace that would indicate what had happened to Sarah and David. The office, which, judging by the furniture, belonged to John, was in the same disarray as the other rooms.

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

Nothing to explain what had happened. But in one of the books on the floor, I found a piece of paper tucked away. It was a handwritten text, written in a handwriting I instantly recognized.

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

Don’t try to contact me, don’t stay home, it’s dangerous. Go to Cleveland, to my 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 or death.

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

They advised him to go to Cleveland, to the house of an Aunt Mary. And they asked him not to tell anyone about Laura. Laura? Who is Laura? Another woman in John’s life.

Another secret. And who are these people John wrote about? Who posed a threat to Sarah and David? And is this related to his double life, his secret affairs? The questions multiplied, and answers remained elusive. But one thing became clear.

Most likely, Sarah found this note and, following John’s instructions, went to Cleveland. That’s probably why she didn’t answer my calls or texts. She was on the run, trying to hide from some unknown threat.

But what should I do? Go to Cleveland to find Aunt Mary? Or go home, lock myself in the apartment, and wait for John to return, demanding explanations? Or maybe go to the police, tell them everything I know, and let them figure it out? I didn’t have time to decide. Outside, I heard the sound of a car approaching. I looked out the window and saw a black SUV pulling into the driveway.

Two men in dark suits emerged, very similar to the special services agents in the movies. My heart sank. Who are these people? What do they need? Do they have something to do with Sarah and David’s disappearance? And most importantly,

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

I ran through the trees, trying to move silently and leave no trace. Voices were heard behind me. The men discovered the house was empty and were apparently now inspecting the grounds.

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

I listened. It seemed there was no pursuit. Either the men didn’t notice me fleeing, or they decided there was no point in chasing an unknown guest.

I sat down on a fallen tree and tried to gather my thoughts. What’s going on? Who are these people? Why did John warn Sarah of the danger? And most importantly, what should I do now? First, I needed to get out of the woods and back to civilization. Then, I’d decide where to go.

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

From John. He called just 10 minutes ago, when I was in the woods, where the signal apparently went dead. With trembling fingers, I pressed the call-back button. Beeps.

One, two, three. I thought he wouldn’t answer when his voice sounded on the other end. So familiar and yet so strange.

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

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

Then John said quietly, “You know. It’s not a question, but a statement.”

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

I know our whole life was a lie. Not all of it, he objected. 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 all these years? Did you lead a double life? Did you cheat on me with a woman who considered herself your only wife? If this is love, then I don’t want to know what hate is to you.

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

But now’s not the time for explanations. They’re in danger. They’re both in danger.

Sarah and David have already gone into hiding, you have to leave too. Immediately! His words sent shivers down my spine.

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.

Leave Springfield. Go home, gather the essentials, and go to Cleveland. 101 Pushkin Street.

Ask for Mary. Say it’s from me. She’ll help you.

But… I started, but John interrupted me. No buts, Emily.

It’s a matter of life or death. Your life or your death. Do as I say.

And… Be careful. They could be following you. And he hung up, leaving me completely confused.

What’s 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 learned? But on the other hand, his anxiety seemed genuine. And those two men in Sarah’s cabin did seem suspicious. What if John was telling the truth and I really was in danger?

I decided not to take any chances. Leaving the woods, I found a path that led to the nearest town. There I got a ride to Springfield, and from there I took the first train home.

The whole way, I couldn’t stop thinking about the situation I was in. Who was John really? Why were they chasing him? And how serious a threat was he to me, Sarah, and David? Upon returning home, the first thing I did was check the apartment. Everything was as I had left it.

The mess in the bedroom after the broken flowerpot, the computer on the living room table, the unwashed mug in the kitchen. No sign of a break-in, no indication that anyone had been there in my absence. I went to the shelf where the box I had found with the flowerpot was.

I took it in my hands and examined it carefully. An ordinary metal box, a little rusty, with a small lock. Nothing special.

But Sarah suggested the box might have a false bottom. What if he’s right? What if there really are documents hidden there, the ones John talked about in his video messages? I turned the box over and began tapping on the bottom, looking for irregularities, hidden mechanisms. And, sure enough, at one point the sound became muffled, as if there was something beneath the metal plate.

I carefully examined the bottom of the box and noticed a small, almost invisible button on the very edge. I pressed it, and part of the bottom slid aside, revealing a small secret compartment. Inside was a sheet of paper folded in four.

I unfolded it and saw handwritten text. The handwriting was unfamiliar to me; 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 (DBO) in alphabetical order.

Account access code. The first five digits after the decimal point of Pi, plus the year of discovery. I reread the text several times, trying to understand its meaning.

Coordinates of a location. Key in a tooth. Encrypted documents.

This all sounded like a spy novel, not the real life of an ordinary supply manager. But John, as I now understood, was no ordinary manager. He led a double life, had several passports with different surnames, and warned of some danger.

Who was he really? A spy? A criminal? Someone hiding from justice or from some shadowy figure? I decided to check the coordinates. I opened the map on the computer and entered the numbers: 54.36 North latitude, 39.12 East longitude.

The map showed a location in the Pennsylvania woods, far from populated areas. A forest or a field. What could be hidden there? And what does this have to do with 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 is that? 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 to decipher the key? Date of birth: M plus V, in letter order. M. Probably John.

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

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

1, 4, 1, 5, 9. And the year we met? If that’s the year I met John, then it’s 2016. So, the code.

1, 4, 1, 5, 9, 2, 0, 1, 6. But which account was it? John and I had a joint bank account, but I knew the password, and it was completely different. Perhaps there was another account I didn’t know about? The questions multiplied, and the answers still remained elusive.

But there was no time to reflect. John said I was in danger, and while I wasn’t sure I could trust him after everything I’d discovered, his anxiety seemed genuine. Besides, those two men in the cabin seemed very suspicious. I decided to follow John’s advice and go to Cleveland to see the mysterious Aunt Mary.

Maybe there I’ll find Sarah and David. Maybe there I’ll discover the whole truth about John and his secrets. Or maybe there I’ll truly be safe from those who might be chasing me.

I quickly packed the essentials into a small bag and looked back at the apartment. Six years of living within these walls. Six years that turned out to be built on lies.

It was painful to realize this, but even more painful was the uncertainty. What awaits me? Will I ever see this house again? And will I see John? I closed the door and went downstairs. Outside, it was quiet; nothing boded danger.

But after John’s words, I began to get suspicious. It seemed like someone was hiding around every corner, that every passing car was following me. When I arrived at the station, I bought a ticket for the nearest train to Cleveland.

While waiting to board, I looked around nervously, searching for suspicious people. But no one paid any attention to me. Ordinary passengers, busy with their chores.

The train arrived on time, and I sat by the window. When the train pulled away, I finally allowed myself to relax a little. Whatever awaited me in Cleveland, at least I was moving, not sitting at home waiting for an unknown danger to find me.

Familiar landscapes unfolded through the window. The city, gradually replaced by suburbs, then fields, forests, and small towns. A peaceful, ordinary landscape that contrasted sharply with the chaos in my soul.

I thought again about John, about his double life, his secrets. Who was he really? Why did he lead such a strange, divided life? And most importantly: Did he ever truly love me? Or was I just part of a complex game? Looking back on our years together, I tried to find signs that indicated his deception.

Were there moments when he fainted? When his mask fell away, revealing his true face? I couldn’t remember anything specific. John had always been a caring and loving husband. Yes, he had frequent business trips, strange calls, and unexplained absences.

But I attributed all of that to the peculiarities of his job, to his stressful schedule. I never suspected that behind these little oddities lay a whole second life. How did he manage to lead a double life for so many years? How did he divide his time between two families? How did he remember who he told what, what stories he told? It required incredible organization, almost an acting talent.

Or… or my pathological ability to lie. The train arrived in Cleveland in two hours. I stepped off the platform and immediately headed to the taxi stand.

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

The car stopped in front of a small, one-story house with a neat front yard. Nothing fancy. An ordinary house in a quiet part of a provincial town.

Who lived here? Seriously, one of John’s aunts? And did she know about his double life? I paid the driver, grabbed my purse, and walked to the door. For a moment, I was plagued by doubt. What would I say to the hostess? How would I explain my appearance? But there was nowhere to hide.

I opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer. Several seconds passed before the door opened.

On the threshold stood an elderly woman in her 70s, with a kind, wrinkled face and an attentive gaze. “Hello,” I said. “Are you Mary?” The woman nodded, examining me closely. “Yes, it’s me. And who are you?” “My name is Emily,” I replied. “Emily Anderson.”

“I am.” I’m from John’s side.” At the mention of John’s name, the woman’s face changed. Anxiety and alertness flashed in her eyes.

“Come in,” she said quickly, stepping aside and letting me in. “No need to linger on the threshold.” I entered, and Mary immediately locked the door with all the padlocks.

There were at least three of them, which seemed odd for a quiet provincial town. “Follow me,” she said, leading me down a small hallway to the living room. The room was cozy and clean, with furniture that looked unchanged since the Soviet era.

A sofa with a knitted cover, a sideboard with crystal china, a television on a piece of furniture, shelves along the wall. Everything evoked the measured, tranquil life of an elderly woman. Nothing hinted at secrets or dangers.

But my attention wasn’t focused on the interior details, but on the people sitting on the sofa. Sarah and David. They were there, safe and sound.

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

She came up to me and hugged me tightly, like an old friend. David, a slender teenager with a face that easily resembled John’s features, looked at me with curiosity and some attention. “Do you know each other?” Mary asked in surprise, shifting her gaze from me to Sarah.

“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 begin to dissipate. At least Sarah and David were safe.

And so was I, it seemed. For now. Tell me what happened,” I asked, turning to Sarah.

“Who broke into the cabin? Why did you run away?” Sarah sat down next to me and began to tell me. After our conversation at the café, I returned to the cabin and told David the truth. Not everyone, of course, omitted some details, but I explained that his father leads a double life, that he has another wife…

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

He warned of the danger and advised me to go there, to see his aunt. I didn’t know whether to believe him, but I decided not to risk it. We were going to leave in the morning, but we didn’t have time.

They arrived first. “Who are they?” I asked. “Two men in black suits,” Sarah replied. “They arrived at the house in a black van.”

I saw them from the bedroom window and immediately realized they were up to no good. David and I managed to sneak through the back door and hide in the neighbor’s shed. We watched as they broke down the door and entered the house.

There they turned everything upside down, looking for something. And then they left. We waited until dark and walked to the nearest town. From there, we drove to Cleveland.

I had Mary’s address; John mentioned it once. “Weren’t you followed?” I asked. Sarah shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

We were very careful. I threw away my phone so they wouldn’t track us. I bought a new one here in Cleveland to send you a message.

“I don’t know if you understood?” “Understood,” I nodded. “That’s why I came to the cabin. And, apparently, I almost ran into the same people. I told them about my visit to the cabin, how I hid in the woods from 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 old woman sighed and got up from the sofa. “I’ll make some tea,” she said.

The conversation would be long. While Mary busied herself in the kitchen, Sarah and I exchanged news. I told her about the note found in the safe’s hiding place, about the strange coordinates and codes.

“What does all this mean?” Sarah wondered. “It sounds like a spy novel, not real life. Maybe it is,” came Mary’s voice, returning with a tray of teacups and a plate of biscuits.

“Perhaps John really is connected to what we would call espionage.” She placed the tray on the table and sat down in the armchair opposite us. “Actually, I’m not John’s aunt,” she began.

“I’m his curator. Or rather, I was, until he decided to quit the game.” “Curator?” I asked again. “In what sense?” “John works for the special services,” Mary explained.

“Or rather, he worked. He was an undercover agent for an international criminal group specializing in arms and drug smuggling.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“John? A special services agent?” It sounded so absurd, so implausible, that I almost laughed. But Mary’s face was completely serious. “Are you joking?” Sarah asked, apparently feeling the same way I did. “I’m afraid not.” Mary shook her head.

John was recruited 15 years ago, while still a student. He was specially integrated into the organization. To do so, he had to create a new personality, a new biography.

And then another, when it was necessary to expand his circle of contacts. But why did he have to get married? Sarah wondered. “Why start a family if he was working undercover? This is part of the legend,” Mary explained.

“A family man inspires more confidence. Besides, it gave him a certain stability, an anchor in the real world. Undercover agents often lose their sense of their own personality.”

Family helped John remember who he really was. “And the second family?” I asked. “Why did he need me if he already had Sarah and David?” Mary looked at me sympathetically. “It wasn’t planned.”

John met you during one of the operations. You were only supposed to be a source of information, but he fell in love. He truly fell in love, for the first time in many years.

He shouldn’t have married you; It was a violation of every rule, but he couldn’t resist. His words took my breath away. John truly loved me.

I didn’t pretend, I didn’t play a role, but I truly felt something. “If you’re his guardian, why did you allow it?” Sarah asked, and I sensed bitterness in her voice. “Why didn’t you stop him when he decided to start a second family? I tried,” Mary sighed. “I convinced him it was too risky, that he was endangering himself, the women, and the child.

But he was steadfast. He said he’d overcome it, that he could protect everyone. And I must admit, he succeeded.

Until recently. “What changed?” I asked. Mary hesitated, as if weighing how much she could tell us. Six months ago, John received information about a large shipment of weapons.

It wasn’t a common weapon, but a chemical one, prohibited by international conventions. He passed the information to management, and an operation was set up to intercept it. But something went wrong.

The criminals learned of the impending raid and managed to escape. They suspected there was a mole among their ranks and began investigating. John realized the circle of suspects was narrowing and his exposure was in danger.

It’s only a matter of time. He decided to disappear, fake his death, and start a new life. With the two of you.

How so? We exhaled at the same time as Sarah. “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 arrange your meeting. He hoped that, if not you would become friends, you would at least coexist peacefully for the sake of common safety. But he didn’t have time.

They discovered him sooner than expected. “What’s wrong with him now?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling. Mary held out her hands. “I don’t know.”

He contacted me three days ago, said I needed to keep a low profile, and that he would get back to me when it was safe.” I haven’t heard from him since. A thick silence fell over the room.

Each of us tried to comprehend what we were hearing. John. He wasn’t just a person leading a double life, but an undercover special services agent.

It explained a lot. His frequent absences, his strange phone conversations, his reluctance to talk about his work. But accepting this truth wasn’t easy.

So what do we do now? asked David, who until then had been listening silently to the conversation. Are we in danger? Mary nodded. I’m afraid so.

If the criminals track John down, they can get you too. To use it as leverage or simply for revenge. So now we have to hide for the rest of our lives? asked Sarah bitterly.

“Not for the rest of our lives,” Mary shook her head. “John left you a path to salvation. Emily, you mentioned a note with coordinates and numbers.”

I nodded and took the folded sheet of paper I found in the safe’s hiding place out of my pocket. “Here, read it yourself.” Mary took the note and studied it carefully.

I thought so, she nodded. “These are the instructions John prepared for you on how to find shelter and money. The coordinates point to a place in the Pennsylvania woods.

There’s probably some hiding place with documents or keys. The mention of the tooth… It’s about John.”

He really does have a cavity in his tooth with a microchip. It contains the encryption key to access the server with additional documents. And the access code to the account.

Apparently, this is for the bank account that holds the money for a new life. But how will this help us? I asked. John disappeared; the encryption key is with him. How can we access these documents and the account? Mary thought.

Maybe there’s a copy of the key. John was forward-thinking; he probably made a backup. Maybe it’s in the cache, at the specified coordinates? So we have to go there? Sarah clarified.

“I’m afraid so,” Mary agreed. “But it’s risky. They could follow you.”

I remembered the strange men in black suits who searched Sarah’s cabin. Were they criminals looking for John? Or perhaps special services agents, John’s colleagues, trying to find him or protect his family? And you can’t help? I asked Mary. If you’re his curator, you should have resources, connections.

The old woman shook her head. “I’ve been retired for three years. Officially, I have no connection to John’s operation.

I can advise, provide temporary shelter, but nothing more. Besides, the situation is complicated. John has been acting on his own responsibility lately, without always informing the leadership.”

So I’m not even sure who I can trust. So we’re on our own, Sarah summarized. Only we can help each other.

Silence fell. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts. The situation seemed hopeless.

Danger threatened us, John disappeared, and the only way out was a mysterious hiding place somewhere in the Pennsylvania woods. “I think we should go to these coordinates,” I finally said. “What do we have to lose? If there really is something there to help us start a new life, the risk is justified.”

Sarah nodded. Okay. But how will we get there? We don’t have a car, and public transportation won’t take us to a remote forest.

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

But it’s better if you go at night to attract less attention.” We discussed the details of the trip. We decided to leave at midnight, when the roads would be deserted.

Mary gave us a map of Pennsylvania, marking the location corresponding to the coordinates on the note. Sure enough, it was a forest, except for the populated areas. How would we find the hiding place there? What if the coordinates weren’t precise enough and we had to search hundreds of square meters of thicket? But there was no other option.

This was our only chance for salvation. We spent the rest of the day at Maria’s house, preparing for the night journey. The old woman gave us warm clothes, flashlights, food, and water.

We studied the map, trying to plot the safest route. And all this 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 11:00 p.m., we were ready to go…

Mary led us through the back door to the garage, where an old Ford Focus sat. “Full tank,” she said, handing the keys to Sarah. “Documents in the glove compartment.” “Good luck, and be careful.”

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

As we pulled out of the yard, Sarah turned off her headlights and drove on only the parking lights until we left the city limits. Only on the highway did she turn on her low beams, and the car drove off into the night. The first hour of the journey passed in silence.

Everyone was deep in thought. I looked out the window at the passing trees and thought about how incredibly life can change in a couple of days. Just on a Saturday morning, I was an ordinary woman with ordinary problems and joys.

And now I’m driving at night on a deserted highway with my husband’s wife and son, hiding from strangers and looking for a hiding place with documents for a new life. If someone told me a story like that, I’d consider it fiction, the plot of a cheap detective. But this was my reality, my life, unexpectedly turned into a thriller.

“How did you meet John?” David asked suddenly, breaking the silence. I turned to him. The teenager was sitting in the backseat, hugging his knees.

In the dim light from the dashboard, his face looked older, more serious. “We met at a modern art exhibition,” I replied after a pause. I was there with a friend, and he…

He said he came for work and that his company sponsors events. We started talking at one of the exhibits. He was very attentive, interested in my opinion, and joked around.

At the end of the night, he asked for my phone number. A couple of days later, he called and invited me out on a date. And you’d never know he already had a family.

There was no accusation in David’s voice, only genuine curiosity. “No, of course not,” I shook my head. He never gave any reason to be suspicious.

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

But then I chalked it all up to the peculiarities of his job. And now it turns out his job is espionage, David said quietly. And Mom and I didn’t know anything either.

We thought he was just an ordinary logistician. He knew how to keep secrets, Sarah commented, without taking her eyes off the road. And how to build his life on lies.

There was bitterness in his voice, and I understood it. We had both been deceived by the person we trusted, the one we loved. And even now we knew the reason for his lies.

A noble reason, as Mary would say. Accepting it wasn’t easy. “Do you still love him?” Sarah asked suddenly, looking at me quickly.

I thought. Did I love John? After everything I’ve learned, after everything that’s happened? I don’t know, I answered truthfully.

I’m not even sure I ever knew the real John. The person behind all his masks and roles. But I loved the John I knew.

And I think a part of me still loves him. Do you? Sarah was silent for a long time, focused on the road. “I lived with him for 16 years,” she said finally.

She gave birth to his son. I shared joys and sorrows with him. And all this time he lied to me.

Not about small things, but about the most important things. And it’s not even that he had another family. I could forgive him for his infidelity.

But he hid his entire life from me, his work, his goals. Everything about himself. How can I love someone I don’t know? Silence fell, interrupted only by the sound of the engine and the crunch of tires on the asphalt.

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

Sarah’s phone’s navigation system indicated that we were about 20 kilometers away from the location indicated by the coordinates. The road was getting worse. The asphalt was replaced by dirt, and the car began to shudder over the potholes.

I began to worry that we might be stranded somewhere in the desert, with no connection or possibility of help. But Sarah drove confidently, as if she were a regular on those roads. Perhaps she was.

Perhaps she, John, and David often went out into nature, unlike John and I, who preferred urban recreation. Finally, the navigator informed us that we had reached our destination. Sarah stopped the car and turned off the engine.

In the silence that followed, the sounds of the nighttime forest were especially clear. The rustling of leaves, the hoot of an owl, a distant rustling. We got out of the car and looked around.

All around was forest. An ordinary deciduous forest, nothing remarkable. No landmarks or signs indicating a hiding place.

Just trees, bushes, grass, a forest road leading into the distance. “What now?” David asked, scanning the surroundings with a flashlight. “How will we find the hiding place?” Good question.

The coordinates led us here, but what next? There had to be some landmark, some clue. I took out the note and reread it. Coordinates.

Key in the third molar socket. Encrypted documents. Key.

Date of birth (DBO) in alphabetical order. Account access code. First five digits after the decimal point of Pi, plus the year of the relationship.

Nothing to indicate the hiding place. Unless… “It’s in the socket of the upper right third molar,” I said thoughtfully.

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

I looked to the right and then up. Nothing special. Trees, sky with twinkling stars.

Maybe it’s related to a particular tree,” Sarah suggested, shining the flashlight on the nearest trunks. “But how can you tell which one? There are hundreds here.”

We began examining the trees growing to the right of the path. Nothing unusual. Oaks, birches, and poplars.

No marks, no notches, nothing to indicate a hiding place. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place? David said. Maybe the clue means something else.

I reread the note again. Third tooth, top right. Third.

Right. Up. What if it’s an address? Suddenly I understood.

Third. The third tree? To the right of the path? And up? Maybe the treasure is at the top of the tree? We started counting the trees to the right of the path. First, second, third.

It turned out to be an imposing oak with a spreading canopy. We shone the flashlight upward, scanning the branches. And sure enough, about three meters up in the trunk was a hollow.

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

But how did we get there? The hollow was too high to reach from the ground, and the lower branches of the oak started even higher. “I can try climbing,” David suggested. “I rock climb, I should be able to do it.”

Sarah looked worried, but after a moment’s thought, she nodded. “Okay, but be careful. And if you feel like you can’t go up or down, let us know immediately.”

We’ll think of something. David took off his jacket to make his climb easier and began to scramble up the oak tree trunk. His hands and feet rested securely on the uneven bark.

Sarah and I shone our flashlights to help him see and anxiously watched his progress. Finally, he reached the hollow. There’s something here.

He shouted from above. “Some container!” He pulled a small, capsule-like metal cylinder out of the hollow and began to descend.

A few minutes later, he was standing next to us, displaying his find. 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 glued together,” I noticed as I examined the joint between the lid and the body. “Or welded.” “So we need to open it,” Sarah decided…

But not here. Let’s go back to the car. We sat in the cab, turned on the lights, and began to carefully examine the container.

There were no inscriptions or other markings on the smooth metal surface. Only the lid had a small protrusion, similar to a button. “Maybe it needs to be pressed?” David suggested.

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

In the container were several items: a USB flash drive, a sealed bag with something resembling a chip inside, three passports, and a folded piece of paper. I took out the passports and opened them.

They were foreign ones, issued in the names of Emily, Sarah, and David Novak. Their birth dates matched ours, but their last names had been swapped. Each passport had a matching photograph.

I didn’t know where John had gotten mine. “These are our new documents,” Sarah whispered, looking at the passport with her name on it. “For a new life.” I unfolded the sheet of paper.

It was a handwritten letter from John. Dear ones! If you’re reading this letter, it means you found each other and found the treasure. I hoped I could explain everything myself, but circumstances seem to have turned out differently.

I know you must hate me now. For the lies, for the double life, for all the secrets I kept from you. I don’t apologize.

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

In different ways, at different stages of life, but with sincerity and depth. Sarah, you were my first true love, the mother of my child, my rock in the darkest 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 experience those feelings. You brought me light and warmth, you reminded me of who I really am. I know I caused you pain, and I can’t do anything about it. But at least I can guarantee your safety.

In the container, you’ll find everything you need to start a new life. Passports, a USB flash drive with instructions, a microchip with an encryption key to access the server with additional documents, and the access code to the bank account in a Swiss bank.

The first five digits after the decimal point of pi are 14159, plus the year I met Sarah, 2007. There’s enough money there for you to start a new life in any country in the world. I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again.

If I can get out of this situation, I’ll find you. If not, I want you to know that you were the best thing in 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 hugged her shoulders, barely holding back his tears. I felt a lump in my throat too. John loved us both.

In a different way, but sincerely. And now, perhaps, he was in danger or even dead, trying to protect us. What do we do now? David asked when we’d calmed down a bit.

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

Sarah looked up at me, her eyes filling with tears. Together? Are you really ready to live with us? After everything that’s happened? I didn’t know if I was ready for this. To live with the woman who was also my husband’s wife, with the son he never spoke about.

It was strange, unusual, beyond anything I could have imagined a week ago. But we had no choice. We were connected.

Connected by John, his secrets, his love, his concern for our safety. And perhaps only together could we survive this new and dangerous reality. Yes, I nodded. Together.

At least until we’re sure the danger has passed. Sarah wiped her tears and smiled weakly. Okay.

Together, then together. After all, we’re a family now. Strange, unusual, but family.

We decided not to return to Cleveland, but to go straight to New York International Airport. On the way, we stopped at a gas station with a convenience store and bought new clothes to change our look. Sarah cut her long hair, and I dyed it from brown to blonde.

David put on thick-framed glasses, which completely changed his face. At the airport, we used new passports to buy tickets for the closest flight to Zurich. Switzerland seemed the logical choice, considering the bank with our money was there.

While I waited to board, I thought about how incredibly life can change in just a few days. Just Saturday, I was an ordinary woman, living an ordinary life. And now I’m sitting in the airport with my husband’s wife and son, with 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 a careless, reckless step. Who would have thought that such a trivial thing could change destiny completely? Seeing Sarah and David sitting next to me in the waiting room, I realized they were thinking the same thing. About John, about his secrets, about his love, about his sacrifice for our safety.

And if we’ll ever see him again. Our flight boarding was announced. We got up, gathered our few belongings, and headed to the gate.

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

Three people whose lives were turned upside down by a broken flowerpot. And perhaps this connection will help us survive in the new reality. And John? John will find us if he can.

I believed in that. I believed the love he felt for us would help him overcome all obstacles. And maybe one day we’ll be together again.

Not as a normal family, of course. As something new, unusual, beyond the usual relationships. But together.

As we passed through security, I turned around one last time, as if expecting to see the familiar figure of John running after us. But all I saw was a group of strangers going about their business. It was time to leave the past behind and move on.

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

A life we will build together, day by day, step by step. And who knows, maybe one day, in a new house and on a new windowsill, I will once again see a cactus in a clay pot. And maybe John will be there, smiling his familiar, slightly sad smile.

After all, anything is possible in life. I had already convinced myself of that. After these words, my mother was speechless.

She never imagined that my ordinary story about a broken cactus would become the beginning of such an incredible story. A story about how one careless step can completely change destiny, turning upside down all the ideas about life and the people you seem to know. Mom was silent for a long time, absorbing what she heard.

And then he only asked one thing. Is it all true? Was John really an undercover agent? Did Sarah, David, and I really start a new life in Switzerland? I smiled and said that some stories are better left unanswered. Let everyone decide whether to believe them or not.

But I’m sure of one thing. You can never be sure you know everything about a person. Not even about those closest to you.

Everyone has their own secrets, their own inner life, that others can only guess at. And sometimes all it takes is a chance event. A broken flowerpot, an unexpected encounter, an overheard conversation.

For these secrets to come to light and change my life forever. Five years have passed since then. Five years of a new life, new discoveries, new relationships.

And every day I wake up thinking about how incredible and unpredictable life is. How one small event can trigger a chain of changes that will affect not only you, but also those around you. And every day I thank fate for bringing me here.

For finding the strength not to fall apart, to accept the truth, no matter how bitter, and move forward. For starting a new family. Strange, unusual, but loving and understanding.

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

That he loves us all in different ways, but sincerely. And I believe him. I believe that wherever he is, no matter what happens, this love remains unchanged.

Just like our love for him. Maybe one day he’ll return. Or maybe we’ll find out what 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 our living room windowsill, there’s a cactus in a clay pot. A reminder of how it all began. And that the most important changes in life sometimes begin with the most mundane and insignificant events.

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