After preparing the meal and setting the table, I called everyone to come eat. By the time I stepped out of the kitchen, having washed the pots, they had already started without me. No one waited. I carried my plate to the far end of the dining table, sitting in a spot where the food felt out of reach and the conversations dwindled into barely audible murmurs. It was like being back in school, alone in the lonely corner of the classroom.

Julieta leaned over, whispering something to Derek, my husband, making them both share a knowing smile. When she turned back, her eyes met mine, filled with a hint of confusion.

"Hey, Michaela, Derek was just asking if there were any spots left in the ballroom dance class I joined," she said brightly. "He thinks he might sign up too. Want to come along?"

Before I could respond, Derek chimed in without even glancing up, “Michaela’s not really into that kind of thing.”

I was about to say something, but they had already shifted to a new topic. I quickly shoveled a few bites of pasta, then got up to chase Mathew around the house, trying to coax him into eating.

Later, as I was washing the dishes, Julieta came to say goodbye. “Michaela, I’m heading out now. Got a meeting with the art club this afternoon.”

Her life always seemed so exciting. Sketching, pottery, watercolor painting...

I dried my hands and offered, “Hey, let me walk you downstairs.”

But Derek interrupted, “Your sister is busy with chores. I’ll walk you out.”

When I finished tidying up, the large house felt strangely empty. Everyone had gone to see my sister off, even though she was only heading to the local arts center a couple of miles away.

As I sat on the couch, rubbing my tired legs, Derek's phone buzzed between the cushions with a call. It was Kyree, calling on Derek’s phone: “Mom, did Dad leave his phone at home? We thought it was lost.”

As we age, memory tends to slip. Even Derek, a celebrated author, wasn’t immune.

On the other end, I could hear Julieta's voice, playfully engaging with Mathew, before the call abruptly ended. I stared at Derek's phone, watching it light up with the interface of a short video app.

Life was too hectic for me to indulge in technology, what with taking my grandson to preschool, visiting Marianna at the nursing home, grocery shopping, laundry, and cleaning... there simply wasn’t time to play with a smartphone.

I curiously navigated the app, using my fingers awkwardly as I mimicked the actions of younger people. A video appeared on the screen: an amusement park, Julieta, my grandson, and there was my husband.

Years later, when I had become a stylish older woman myself, I finally understood that these video diary-like recordings are what people now call vlogs.

Julieta’s vlog was titled “The Runaway Princess Returns Home,” stylishly embellished with pink neon subtitles. Derek was holding Mathew when he went to pick her up, but she refused to get in the car until he said, “Princess, please get in the car.”

She asked Mathew, who was happily enjoying a chocolate waffle cone, if she could have a taste. After swallowing a whole scoop, the child began to cry, and she playfully ran after him, trying to make it up to him. She even added a clip of herself directing Mathew in a video. In his sweet, childlike voice, he counted, “Three, two, one,” capturing the moment Julieta rested her head on Derek’s shoulder, smiling with the innocence of a young girl.

The comments section was filled with praise:

“What a fabulously youthful grandma!”

“This is the childhood I dream about—both grandpa and grandma are so delightful!”

“Look how grandpa just keeps grinning at grandma in the background. The kid fell while running, and he didn’t even notice, haha. Definitely, his wife is his number one, the grandchild must be adopted.”

Everyone assumed it was a day out with grandparents and their grandchild. The video replayed over and over, each loop piercing my heart.

So this is the Disneyland the child was so excited to visit.

Turns out my hearing isn’t as bad as I thought.

With trembling hands, I clicked on the profile picture, unveiling a life completely different from my own. In every single one of these memories, Derek Lee was there without exception. There were shots of him at book signings for his memoir, dining at trendy bistros, and even hiking with my son and daughter-in-law. The timeline stretched back five years.

What was I doing back then? I collapsed onto the floor, struggling to remember. Maybe I was changing diapers for my newborn grandson or taking care of my bedridden mother-in-law.

After watching the videos, Derek returned. He paused, staring at me silently for a long moment, then walked over and snatched the phone away. I wanted to yell at him—this shameless man, flitting from one thing to another even at his age. But the words caught in my throat, and instead, I managed to choke out a single question: "What kind of relationship do you have with my sister?"

Derek didn't explain, didn't argue. With an air of calm detachment, he simply stated, "Our feelings emerged naturally but were always within boundaries. We have common interests; she's a kindred spirit in my later years. Kindred spirits are hard to find. We only travel together and have never crossed any lines. I've never left my family, so what's making you so upset?"

He stood there with his hands behind his back, as if to suggest how could a simple woman like me possibly understand the virtues of a gentleman like him. I thought I had come to terms with everything by now. But for the past five years, was it really me who didn't want to share his interests?

I said I wanted to see this memoir as his crowning achievement. He insisted it was his professional domain and didn't want family interference. I had heard about that bistro from our daughter, but he claimed that home cooking was healthier and advised against eating out. When the family planned a hiking trip, who was left to take care of the baby at home?

The only one truly abandoned was me. The only one left in the dark by everyone was me. Clinging to the sofa, I struggled to my feet, refusing to let it go, and asked, "Five years, and you kept this from me for five whole years?"

His gaze flickered, casting a pitiful look before turning away. My memories crumbled, piecing together details and fragments, revealing a truth I had never dared to imagine. It hadn't just been five years.