I Thought My Husband Died — Then Three Years Later He Moved Into the Apartment Next Door With Another Woman and a Child
The woman’s voice shook when she spoke. “Katie? Our daughter has the same name as this woman? Who is she, Ron?”
“I don’t need five minutes, Ron,” I interrupted. “I just need the truth.”
“How can you be alive?”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “Carla, take her inside.”
But Carla didn’t move right away. She just stared at me, then at her husband.
“Who is she?” she repeated.
“I’m the woman who buried your husband,” I said, holding her gaze. “And I’m so sorry you didn’t know the truth. I don’t know the truth either, it seems.”
After a long moment, Carla turned and carried the little girl into their apartment.
“Who is she?”
Ron stood there, staring at me like he was looking at a life he thought he had escaped.
For a second, neither of us moved.
“You have five minutes,” I said. “Tell me the truth. After that, you can go back to your new life.”
Ron stepped past me and followed me into the kitchen. He dragged a hand down his face.
“I didn’t know you lived here, Katie.”
“That’s clear.”
“Tell me the truth.”
Silence stretched between us.
“I didn’t die,” he said finally.
“I noticed, Ron. You look very alive.”
He swallowed. “I was in debt. More than I could fix. There were business loans, credit cards, and things I didn’t tell you about. I thought I could handle it.”
“And when you couldn’t?”
“I was in debt. More than I could fix.”
“I panicked, Katie. That’s all I can say.”
“So you let me bury you?”
“It wasn’t supposed to turn into a funeral,” he said quickly. “I just wanted to buy more time, but then things got complicated quickly.”
“To do what? Start over?”
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