It was another typical Tuesday night, and I was at my desk, eyes glued to the screen, typing away at an email that didn’t matter. The hum of the office was oddly comforting, and the clock ticked slowly toward 6 p.m. My boss, Richard, was wrapping up his conference call in the adjacent room, his voice muffled but somehow commanding. As per usual, he’d soon ask me to lie to his wife about him working late—again.
I hated it, but what could I do? It was just another one of those things you accept when you’re trying to survive in a job where your loyalty is worth less than a paperclip. I’d always tell her he was caught up in some project, working late. The first few times, she bought it. But it was getting old.
That night, Richard didn’t even bother with his usual half-hearted explanations. He walked by my desk, barely glancing at me as he tossed his car keys on the counter and grabbed his jacket. “Tell Linda I’ll be late again,” he mumbled, his back already turned.
I paused, staring at the phone on my desk, contemplating my next move. The familiar call from his wife would come in soon enough, and I would have to cover for him again. But something in me snapped.
My thumb hovered over the phone, and when it rang, I picked it up without hesitation. “Hello, Mrs. Turner.”
“Hi, darling. Is Richard still there? He didn’t call, and I thought he said he’d be home for dinner.”
I swallowed. “Actually, Mrs. Turner… Richard isn’t here.”
There was a long pause on the other end, the silence dragging on uncomfortably. I could almost hear her tapping her fingers against the phone.
“Oh, really?” she finally said, her voice light and teasing. “Well, I guess you don’t know, do you?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She chuckled, but it wasn’t a warm sound—it was sharp, knowing. “Sweetheart, Richard hasn’t been home after 6 p.m. in years. And I mean years. He doesn’t even sleep in the same house anymore.”
I blinked, the words hitting me like a punch. I had assumed Richard’s late-night work routine was an excuse—he was always so vague when he talked about his “projects,” but this? This was something else entirely.
“Wait, what?” I managed to stammer. “What are you saying?”
She laughed again, this time low and eerie, like she was enjoying the discomfort she was stirring. “I’m saying, dear, Richard’s never worked late. He’s been seeing someone else for years. I know, I’ve known. I just didn’t care to confront him about it because—well, why bother? He’s hardly ever here, and frankly, I enjoy the peace and quiet.”
The blood drained from my face. I didn’t know how to process the sudden wave of betrayal washing over me. I felt sick, like I had unknowingly been complicit in a lie for all these months, maybe even years. But that wasn’t the worst part.
“The funny thing is,” she continued, her voice now cool and distant, “I was actually planning to let him finish whatever mess he was making with you tonight. But now that you know the truth, well, I suppose I don’t need to bother. Thanks for being so honest, though.”
I didn’t know what to say. I could hear her smile through the phone, an unsettling sound.
Then she hung up.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the phone in my hand, trying to understand what had just happened. I wasn’t sure if I felt more betrayed by Richard or by myself for having been dragged into this tangled mess. But in the end, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t part of their marriage anymore.
The next day, Richard came in, looking tired and disheveled. His eyes avoided mine, and for the first time, I felt no obligation to protect him.
As he walked by, I didn’t say a word. Instead, I picked up the phone and dialed his wife’s number again. I needed to hear her laugh one more time, if only to remind myself that there were worse things than being lied to.
I didn’t work late that night. I didn’t work late for the rest of the week. Because sometimes, the truth is a lot more twisted than any lie could ever be.
