I Was Just a Stand-In for His Dead First Love, Until I Walked Away for Good

When Otto Henson and I were dating, he always kept a careful distance, tender and restrained.

It wasn't until the second year of our marriage that we finally lived like newlyweds, tangled up in each other, the heat of it consuming.

But every night, afterward, Otto would insist on wiring money to my account.

Sometimes two hundred dollars, sometimes three, sometimes as much as three thousand.

Each time, he'd explain with that delighted smile,

"My wife works so hard. A little something to treat yourself."

I'd take it shyly, even tucked it away in quiet to cover our household costs.

Until the day I accidentally overheard him talking with a friend.

"Beth Swanson is just a warm body to sleep with. With the lights off, they're all the same. I know Cindy would forgive me. She wouldn't want to watch me suffer while she's gone."

The Cindy he spoke of was his first love, dead these past five years.

At the mention of the departed, his friend softened, moved, offering comfort,

"You really are the most devoted of us, Otto. After all these years, you still keep Cindy enshrined in your heart. Her spirit must be watching over you. All this time you've cared for her mother and raised her child in her place. Every one of us has seen it."

The words landed, and Otto could no longer hold himself together. He buried his face in his hands and broke into helpless sobs.

"Once I've seen Cindy's mother to the end of her days, I'll go down and be with her. I miss her. God, I miss her so much!"

I stood frozen outside the door, the blood in my veins turning to ice in an instant, my chest hollowed out in a single breath.

So this was the truth. Five years together, and I'd been nothing more than a body for Otto to lie beside.

And the child I'd raised for five years, the one he called his little brother, was his own son with that dead first love.

From beginning to end, he'd carried the ghost of his idealized love in his heart. He'd never spared me even an inch of room.

If his obsession ran this deep, then there was no reason for a tool like me to keep cluttering his line of sight.

I dug up the messages from my mother, all the way over in Barcelona, and replied with trembling hands,

"Book me a flight for three days from now."

——

It was already past eleven at night when Otto came through the door.

"Why are the lights off?"

He startled a little at the sight of me sitting motionless on the sofa.

"Sign them."

I didn't answer. I just pointed at the divorce papers on the coffee table.

The air froze solid. Otto went silent.

I turned my head and looked at this face I'd shared five years with, a face that now made me sick to my stomach, and I lost control completely.

"Five years. You lied to me for five years! What was I to you? What was I ever?"

"You already know?"

Otto's expression shifted, again and again,

until finally he stopped bothering to hold it in place. He let out a long breath,

like a man peeling off a mask he'd worn far too long.

"Since you already know, there's no point hiding it anymore. Keeping up the act all these years has worn me out too."

He glanced again at the divorce papers on the table and let out a scornful laugh.

"Though it's a little laughable, you wanting a divorce. All these years you've had nothing and no one. I've carried you. How exactly would you live without me?"

"Not to mention……"

"Not to mention what?" Tears welled in my eyes as I pressed him.

Otto looked at my wounded, grief-stricken face, and something like reluctance flickered deep in his eyes.

He turned away, walking straight toward the bedroom, his voice dropping low,

"Not to mention you've had three abortions. You can't have children anymore. Aside from me, what man would ever want you?"

"Beth, why bother holding a grudge against a dead woman? If you don't have the standing to throw a fit, then don't. You're not a young girl anymore."

The bedroom door slammed shut, a dull, heavy thud,

like a blunt knife dragging back and forth across my heart, the dull ache flooding through my whole body.

Three abortions.

He knew too. In less than a year, I'd had three abortions for him.

During those tender days with him, I'd been so eager, checking my temperature without fail every single day, timing my cycle to the hour, forcing down herbal medicine so bitter it turned my stomach.