After Twenty-Five Stolen Anniversaries

On our 25th wedding anniversary, I found an old photo album.

It was filled with intimate portraits.

The man was my husband.

The woman wasn't me.

Each photo was dated. From age thirty to fifty, they never missed a single year.

On the back of one, in his handwriting: "To G. My eternal muse."

So this was why he missed our wedding anniversary every year.

I headed straight for the photography studio.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, I saw my husband gently adjusting a silk scarf for a lady.

He noticed me at the door.

"Why did you go through my things? We're just making up for past regrets. Can't you just turn a blind eye?"

I laughed. "Fine. Let's get a divorce."

It's never too late to start a new life.

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1

It was a rainy day in Seattle.

It was also my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with my husband, Gareth.

But he, just like every year before, wasn't home.

Gareth said he had to go to Boston for an extremely important academic conference.

In our twenty-five years of marriage, he had never once spent an anniversary with me.

I swallowed the last bite of my toast alone. The coffee had gone cold.

I went to mop the floor, passing by Gareth's study. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of an old box in the corner, set aside for donation to Goodwill.

I sighed and put down the mop. I walked in, wanting to give it one last look-through.

As I moved aside the old books, I felt a cold, hard object at the very bottom of the cedar chest.

It was a heavy leather photo album.

I opened it, and a musty, dusty smell mixed with an unfamiliar perfume wafted out.

None of the photos inside were ordinary wedding pictures.

They were sets of artistic photos, filled with desire and entanglement. Bare shoulders, intertwined limbs, dazed yet satisfied gazes.

The man in the photos was all too familiar. It was Gareth.

But the woman wasn't me.

I pressed my temples, feeling the world spin. Was it a headache or a heartache? I could no longer tell the difference.

The most recent photo in the album was dated just one year ago.

Although their hair had grayed, their bodies were still taut, wrapped up in each other like young lovers.

On the back of the photo was Gareth's flamboyant handwriting.

“To G, My Eternal Muse.”

To G, my eternal muse.

Looking closer, I saw that every photo was dated.

From thirty to fifty. Though their bodies had softened with age, they had never missed a single year.

So this was why my husband was never home on our anniversary.

It was all so he could take a set of steamy, artistic photos with the muse of his life.

Utterly absurd.

My hands trembling, I closed the album, remembering the look on Gareth's face before he left home yesterday.

He had mentioned going to Boston for an important literary summit, saying he was a legend in his field.

I didn't think much of it at the time. After all, before he retired, he was the most renowned professor of comparative literature at the University of Washington.

I had suggested going with him, maybe seeing the East Coast while we were there, but his face had darkened instantly.

“That’s a serious academic event. What would you do there? You wouldn’t fit in. You’d only be a distraction!”

His words left me speechless.

I had to admit, he had a point.

Thinking back now, I remembered how my son Caleb, who works at Amazon, worships his father. Of course he would play along with his father's "legend."

I picked up my phone and called Caleb.

“Caleb, your father went to Boston for a conference. I'm a little worried about his health—have you two been in touch?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

Then, his tone studiously casual, he said, “Yes, Mom. Dad's at that important literary summit. He's kind of a legend in his field, you know.”

He was covering for Gareth.

My heart instantly sank into the cold Seattle rain. I gave a few perfunctory replies and hung up, tears streaming down my face.

I couldn’t believe my own son would lie to me for his father.

Gareth had the photos taken at the same studio every year.

A boutique photography studio in the Fremont district.

I called an Uber.

Twenty-five years of marriage. Perhaps I needed to witness this cruel betrayal with my own eyes to finally find some closure.

When I got out of the car, the rain was coming down even harder, as if the sky itself wanted to drown the city.

I crept toward the studio entrance, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Before long, through the expansive floor-to-ceiling glass window, I saw Gareth.