“You’re early, Brian,” a soft voice said from behind me, followed by the rustle of plastic grocery bags. I turned around slowly, my fingers still gripping the brass key with the blue tag, and looked at the woman standing in the doorway of Unit 88.
She was holding a brown paper bag of groceries, and a little girl with a bright pink backpack was holding her hand. My husband had rented this storage unit for nine years to store his old fishing gear, or so he told me. Now, I was standing in a fully furnished secret apartment that had cost us over fifty thousand dollars. And his second family had just walked through the door. I stood there, my jaw locked, listening to my own pulse as the world I had built for twenty-three years completely crumbled in front of my eyes. The woman stopped dead in her tracks, her face turning completely pale as her bags slipped from her hands and hit the rug. This was only the beginning of a nightmare that would expose a nine-year lie, and the absolute worst part was still sitting in my purse.
I need to back up for a second because none of this makes sense without knowing who we were. My name is Ellen. I am 52 years old. My husband, Brian, and I had been married for 23 years. We lived in a quiet, split-level house in Westerville, Ohio. It wasn’t a fancy life, but I thought it was ours. I worked as an administrative assistant at the high school, sorting paper charts and dealing with state requirements. Brian worked as a commercial drywall estimator. He was always quiet, methodical, and incredibly careful with money. Or so I thought.
He drove an old Buick LeSabre until the rust ate through the passenger door.
We clipped coupons, bought generic groceries, and rarely went out to eat. If we did, it was the Friday night fish fry at the local diner where we shared a piece of pie to save 3 dollars. We had two boys, Tyler and Jacob. They are both in college now, building their own lives. We spent our years sacrificing for their tuition, or at least that is what Brian told me every time I suggested we take a weekend trip to the lake. He would always shake his head and say we needed to be sensible.
But then there was the fishing gear. Nine years ago, Brian bought a used aluminum fishing boat from his uncle. He told me he needed a place to store it, along with all his father’s old rods and tackle. He said he found a cheap storage unit on Alum Creek Drive. It was only supposed to be temporary. He had this heavy brass key with a blue plastic tag that he kept in his desk drawer. Every Thursday night and Saturday morning, he would grab his plaid thermos, take that key, and say he was heading down to the unit to clean his reels or meet up with some old guys from work. I never questioned it. Why would I? He always came home smelling faintly of lake water and pine.
