The wardrobe door in our bedroom. It’s been a source of quiet, simmering rage for years. Not even a decade, just years. It’s one of those sliding ones, the heavy kind, the kind that promised luxury and ease but delivered nothing but frustration. Every morning, every single damn morning, when I try to open his side – the right side, the one that holds his perfectly pressed shirts and his few, unchanging suits – it jams.It grinds. It sticks. It doesn’t glide. It resists with a stubborn, silent defiance that feels almost personal.
I’d pull, tug, jiggle, sometimes even give it a frustrated kick at the bottom, and it would never budge. Not without a fight. His side was the easy one, always gliding smoothly. Mine was the gatekeeper of his secrets, or at least, of his laundry. My side, the left, slid like a dream. But his? A battle. Every. Single. Day.
He always laughed it off. “Just needs a little… love,” he’d say, giving it a gentle tap, and sometimes, miraculously, it would yield for him. Not for me. Never for me. Maybe I’m just not strong enough, I’d think, internalizing the daily failure. Maybe I’m just not doing it right.
A smiling woman outside in winter | Source: Freepik
Today, it was worse. Today, I needed to get to a box I knew he stored behind his suit jackets, a box of old tax documents, or so he said. We were doing our annual clear-out, decluttering for the new season. He was at work. It was my task to tackle the monster.
I pulled. Nothing. I braced my feet, took a deep breath, and yanked with all my might. My shoulder screamed. The wood groaned. A faint, awful scraping sound echoed through the quiet room. Still stuck. I tried pushing it from the other end. No give. I was starting to sweat, my hair clinging to my temples. This wasn’t just a door; it was a psychological barrier. It felt like it was protecting something. Keeping something locked away.
A wave of irrational anger washed over me. I wanted to smash it. I wanted to tear it off its damn rollers. With a desperate growl, I lunged, grabbing the handle with both hands, twisting my body, pulling back with a force I didn’t know I possessed.
A happy schoolgirl in class | Source: Pexels
There was a sudden, sickening CRACK. And then, a sickening whoosh of air as the door, finally, violently, flew open. It slammed into the wall with a THUD that rattled the house.
I stumbled back, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing. The dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight now illuminating the deep recesses of his side of the wardrobe.
And that’s when I saw it. Tucked right at the very back, behind a row of winter coats I never saw him wear, was a shoebox. Not the tax document box. This was smaller. Older. Taped shut with yellowing masking tape. It didn’t look like his kind of box at all. Too worn. Too… secret.
My heart gave a strange lurch. Curiosity, or dread? I wasn’t sure. My hand trembled as I reached for it, pulling it out into the light. It was surprisingly heavy.
Portrait of a sad young woman | Source: Midjourney
I sat on the edge of the bed, the box on my lap. The tape was brittle, flaking as I peeled it away. What was in here? Old love letters? A hidden stash? A forgotten past? My mind raced, conjuring a thousand scenarios, each one a little more painful than the last.
I lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled amongst layers of tissue paper, were tiny things. A small, knitted blanket, faded blue. A miniature baby onesie, white with little yellow ducks. A pair of ridiculously small, soft booties. A silver rattle, tarnished with age.
My breath hitched. My hands started to shake uncontrollably.
BABY CLOTHES.
Whose? We had no children. He said he never wanted them. I always respected that, even though deep down, I yearned. We built our life around that decision. A conscious, shared choice. Or so I thought.
A pregnant woman sitting on the couch | Source: Midjourney
Underneath the clothes, carefully wrapped in another piece of tissue, was a small, dried corsage. And then, a stack of envelopes, tied with a thin, faded red ribbon. Letters.
My vision blurred. I picked up the stack, my fingers fumbling with the ribbon. They were old. The paper was thin, crinkled. The handwriting was unmistakably his. Elegant, precise.
I pulled out the top letter. No date on the front. I opened it.
The first line. I read it. And then I read it again. And again.
“My dearest [Name redacted to protect privacy], I hope this finds you well. I hope our little one is well. I think of you both every day. It kills me that I can’t be there, but we both know this is for the best, for everyone.”
A woman gaping in shock | Source: Midjourney
The name. I knew the name. MY BEST FRIEND. The best friend I’d had since college. The one I loved like a sister. The one who had always been unlucky in love, who had “never found the right one,” who had “always wanted kids but never had the chance.” The one who I’d always felt so much empathy for.
My eyes darted to the next letter. And the next. They were all to her. All from him. Talking about “our baby.” Talking about “the decision.” Talking about how “strong” she was. About how “sorry” he was.
Then, I saw the dates. Tucked away at the bottom of one letter, written in small script: October 14th, two years into our relationship.
My world. It didn’t just crack. It SHATTERED.
Two years into our relationship.
He had a child with my best friend.
My best friend, who always claimed she was heartbroken about never having children, gave birth to HIS child and gave it up for adoption.
A serious-looking man sitting on the couch | Source: Midjourney
And then, she continued to act like my dearest friend, confiding in me about her lonely life, while he, my partner, played the role of the supportive, understanding husband, always kind to her, always making sure she was okay.
My entire life, the foundation of my love, my friendship, my understanding of my own past and future, was a LIE. A carefully constructed, two-person conspiracy, built around me, hidden in plain sight.
The wardrobe door. It didn’t just jam for years. It was keeping my entire universe from imploding.
I dropped the letters. I couldn’t breathe. My chest was tight, my vision swam. The little duck onesie lay crumpled, innocent, sickeningly sweet, a testament to a betrayal so profound, so absolute, it hollowed me out from the inside.
HE HAD A CHILD.
WITH HER.
WHILE HE WAS WITH ME.
And they hid it. They hid it all.
A heartbroken woman at the doorway | Source: Midjourney
The door. The damn door. It wasn’t just stuck. It was screaming. It was screaming at me for years, trying to tell me. And I just thought it was annoying.
I didn’t hear it.
And now.
NOW I HEAR EVERYTHING.
