The Other Woman Lived in My House

The day William Charles retired, the sky was gray and heavy. When he opened the front door, Sydney Liebes followed closely behind. Sydney's eyes were covered with white gauze, and she clutched William's arm, her steps unsteady. "Coco, Sydney has lost her sight. From now on, she'll be living with us." William's voice was very calm, as if he were stating something completely ordinary. The spatula in my hand froze mid-air; oil splattered onto my skin, and I jerked back from the burn. Sydney Liebes was William's idealized first love—a lover who never quite faded. She was diagnosed with an eye disease last year, and I heard no one in her family was looking after her. But he never once consulted me about her living with us. "William, this..." I wanted to speak, but he cut me off. "Sydney only has me left as a friend, so please be understanding. She'll leave once her eyesight gets better." He helped Sydney toward the guest room without looking back at me. I watched their retreating backs, feeling as if a wet cotton ball was lodged in my chest. After thirty years of marriage, I had long grown used to William's sense of entitlement, but this time, it felt different. The day after preparing the guest room, I went to water the vegetable garden in the backyard. A patch of newly sprouted tomato seedlings had fallen over, their broken stems still caked with soil. Sydney stood by the vegetable garden gate, holding a bamboo pole, looking innocent. "Coco, I didn't mean to— I couldn't see the path and just tripped..." I crouched down and touched the broken stem with my fingertips; sticky juice smeared onto my hand. I'd planted this myself early in spring, hoping to make tomato scrambled eggs for my son, Lucas Charles, in the summer. "It's okay. I'll replant it." Suppressing my anger, I kept my voice as calm as I could. William happened to come back, saw the scene, and said nothing more than, "It's no big deal. If the vegetables die, just plant more. Sydney, don't be scared." He walked over, stepping right on the freshly sprouted scallions, then came to Sydney's side and carefully supported her: "Don't go to the backyard anymore; the ground is slippery." I looked at the flattened scallions, their green leaves pressed into the soil, as if they were crying. Those were the ones I purposely kept to chop up as garnishes. At night, lying in bed, William had his back turned to me. "William, have you ever thought that I need respect too?" I asked softly. He didn't say anything for a long time, then turned over: "Coco, I owe her; don't make unreasonable trouble." "Owe her"? Then what do these thirty years of my devotion even count for? I stared at the ceiling, seriously pondering for the first time: Can this marriage really go on?