For four years, I’d worked two jobs in a greasy roadside diner, not only putting my husband, Idris Crestwood, through his Ph.D. program at Northridge University but also paying for his expensive stem cell treatments after a so-called severe spinal injury.

And I did it all willingly, never once setting foot on his campus. He always said he didn’t want me to be looked down on by his elite classmates, reeking of cheap, smoky bacon.

On the day of his graduation ceremony, he once again told me not to come, calling it a boring formality.

But I was too proud of him. I secretly slipped into my best dress and went anyway.

Standing in the back row of the auditorium, I watched as he stood under the spotlight, his voice thick with emotion as he thanked his wife. He said she had spent countless days and nights with him in the lab, even helping him organize data while pregnant.

I froze, my hand instinctively going to my flat stomach, where two lives had been lost to my overwork.

For him, I had gone from a promising genius at a culinary academy to a woman with grease ground deep under her fingernails, reeking of cheap fried food.

And now, the tattoo on his wrist that once bore my initial, “W,” had been covered by a more ornate, curling “S.”

So, who exactly was this “wife” he was thanking?

————————

1

The auditorium was a symphony of congratulatory shouts echoing from every corner, but an icy chill washed over me.

A slideshow of Idris's life began playing on the massive screen. In the lab, he sat in a chair while a woman in a white dress leaned over, her hand guiding his on the microscope. In one, she pushed his wheelchair through the Northern California wine country, their smiles picture-perfect as they toasted against the setting sun. At a luxury resort in the Sierra Nevadas, she supported him as he stood on ski slopes, the light catching them like a high-fashion magazine cover.

In every photo, that woman was the picture of elegance. With her exquisite makeup and tasteful dresses, she radiated an effortless academic confidence.

And me?

My life was a greasy roadside diner, surrounded by sizzling pans and mountains of dishes. My hands were rough and chapped, the smell of cheap bacon smoke a permanent ghost on my skin.

Idris and I didn't even have a single decent photo together.

He always claimed his mobility issues made him hate having his picture taken.

It turned out he just hated being photographed with me.

Now, that woman glided onto the stage and stood beside him, expertly adjusting the tassel on his doctoral cap as if she’d done it a thousand times.

Idris raised his hand and clasped hers tightly.

The way he looked at her—tender, adoring, almost worshipful.

He’d never looked at me like that.

The students and professors in the audience erupted in applause, cheering for the campus's golden couple.

And the real wife who had carried him through four long years?

I stood in the last row, utterly invisible.

For four years, I had operated like a tireless machine, just to pay for Idris's “medical bills” and tuition. Before dawn, I was at the diner flipping bacon and toast. During the day, I was in the back kitchen, scrubbing an endless pile of greasy dishes. Late at night, I cleaned the tables and mopped the sticky floor.

The exhaustion had nearly hollowed me out completely.

It had also cost me two unborn children.

When I miscarried, I didn't even have time to grieve.

I just kept telling myself that once he graduated, everything would be better.

Instead, this was how he repaid me.

I couldn't bear the heart-wrenching scene any longer and fled back to our tiny rental, a space not even 550 square feet.

His academic materials were piled on the desk, every page organized by my own hands. Even his “special” ergonomic chair—it was the most comfortable one I could find after scouring the entire city.

Every corner of this room was a testament to my love for him.

And every corner mocked my stupidity.

Idris must have been high on his own success, because his normally password-protected iPad was left open on the desk. He always said it contained important research and forbade me from touching it.

I didn't care about his rules anymore. I tapped on a notes app that lay open, as if waiting for me.

My hand trembled as I opened it.

Every word on the screen was a dagger to my heart.

[February 5. Meeting Phoebe was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. Unlike Willow, who reeks of cheap grease. The smell makes me sick.]

[March 10. Phoebe had terrible morning sickness today. The bacon smell on Willow's clothes meant she couldn't eat a bite. Pregnancy is so hard on her.]

[April 2. The research grant came in. Didn't tell Willow. Bought Phoebe those diamond earrings she wanted.]

[My beloved Phoebe.]

So, the woman had a name.

Phoebe Montgomery. The very same “eager underclassman” he’d so often mentioned.

A hidden folder in his cloud drive was filled with screenshots of electronic receipts. Each one was more chilling than the last.

Designer crib — $8,000.

Luxury postpartum care service — $15,000.

Down payment for a luxury condo in Redwood Hills — $200,000.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

The day he paid that down payment—

Was the day of my second miscarriage.

That day, he told me he couldn’t afford to send me to a hospital for the D&C I needed because he had to pay an “emergency treatment fee.” Instead, he bought me painkillers from a 7-Eleven. He had put on such a show of remorse, promising he would make it up to me and give me a better life after he graduated.

I suppose his better life had indeed arrived.

It just didn't include me.

A venomous rage began to boil in my veins.

I had pinched every penny, wearing threadbare clothes while giving him the best of everything.

And he was disgusted by the honest smell of my work, taking every sacrifice for granted.

The money I earned, leaving before dawn and returning after midnight?

He had used it to build a love nest with another woman.

Four years.

I had raised a monster.

I wouldn't let him get away with this.

I hunched over the screen, saving a screenshot of every single receipt to my email.

Evidence.

When Idris came home, he was practically glowing.

He held up a cheap supermarket cupcake. “Got it on sale. To celebrate.”

I took it without a word.

He started rambling, a sure sign of guilt.

“The ceremony was so boring. The president's speech went on forever, I almost fell asleep. It's a good thing you didn't come—you would have been miserable.”

My gaze fell on the 99-cent price tag.

“I heard the families of outstanding graduates get invited on stage. Is that true?”

Idris’s smile froze.

His eyes darted around for a second before he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t listen to rumors. It’s all complicated academic stuff. You wouldn’t understand it anyway, so don't worry about it.”

His words were a slap in the face.

The cupcake in my hand was nearly crushed.

His phone rang.

“A friend calling to congratulate me,” he muttered, already hurrying toward the balcony.

I watched him go.

His steps were steady, effortless, agile. He moved with an ease that betrayed no hint of a man with a severe spinal injury.

I quietly followed him out.

His voice was low and gentle.

“Phoebe, don't cry. Of course I love you. As soon as I finalize the new job tomorrow, I'll divorce her. I’ll give you and the baby a real home.”

So that was his plan.

The moment his brilliant future began—

I’d be thrown out like trash.

My hands shaking, I recorded every word.

Then I slid down the wall, silent tears tracking paths through the day’s grime on my cheeks.

This would not be my end.

That night, after Idris was sound asleep, I picked up his phone.

In the list of accounts he followed was a private Instagram.

The profile picture was blank.

Username: Starry_S.

The latest post was from this afternoon.

[Happy graduation, my dear husband, Dr. Crestwood.]

In the photo, Idris was holding his diploma, hugging Phoebe on stage.

My vision blurred as I scrolled down.

Yesterday:

[Have to dress up beautifully. A doctor's wife must attend the degree ceremony!]

Phoebe, in her white dress, stood on her toes to kiss him.

Last week:

[Our little miracle.]

A photo of an ultrasound scan.

Twenty-four weeks pregnant.

I couldn't look anymore. I wanted to smash the phone against Idris's smug, sleeping face.

Then another notification popped up.

Phoebe had posted again.

[Our new home is ready—a double joy!]

[Tomorrow is Idris's job celebration and our housewarming party. Friends, please come join us!]

[10 AM, 1006 Oak Avenue, Redwood Hills. Our family of three will be waiting for you!]