Chapter 2 - The Light She Always Left On
Camille didn't remember driving to her mother's house.
She remembered only pulling into the driveway, turning off the engine, and sitting behind the steering wheel while her phone vibrated against the passenger seat.
Andre had called eleven times.
She didn't answer.
Lorraine arrived twenty minutes later, having taken her own car from the family dinner.
When she saw Camille still sitting outside, she walked to the driver's window and tapped gently.
“Come inside, sweetheart.”
Camille tried to speak.
Instead, she began to cry.
Not the dramatic kind of crying that demanded someone's attention.
These were exhausted, almost soundless tears.
Lorraine opened the door and wrapped her arms around her daughter.
For several minutes, neither woman spoke.
Inside, Lorraine made tea that Camille couldn't drink.
Camille sat at the kitchen table, staring at the white tile floor.
“Did you know?” she finally asked.
Lorraine looked genuinely wounded.
“No.”
“Did Renee know?”
“I don't believe so.”
Camille pressed her palms against her eyes.
“I kept asking him whether there was anything else.”
“I know.”
“He looked me straight in the face, Mama.”
Lorraine sat opposite her.
“Then tonight wasn't the first time he lied.”
That was the sentence Camille couldn't escape.
Because when she allowed herself to remember, the signs were everywhere.
Andre had started coming home later eighteen months earlier.
At first, it was because his office had taken on several difficult clients.
Then there were supposedly mandatory Saturday meetings.
One weekend, he told her he was helping Renee move furniture.
Camille had spent that Saturday buying groceries, cleaning the house, and preparing his favorite meal.
Andre arrived close to midnight.
He kissed her forehead and said he was exhausted.
She remembered putting his dinner in the refrigerator.
She remembered how he barely looked at her.
What she remembered most clearly was the porch light.
Their house had a narrow front porch with a yellow light above the steps.
Whenever Andre worked late, Camille left it on.
He used to joke that he could always tell when his wife was waiting for him.
Some nights, she fell asleep on the couch before he returned.
He would wake her gently and lead her upstairs.
Eventually, he stopped waking her.
Then he stopped noticing the light.
Lorraine watched her daughter's expression change.
“What are you thinking?”
“All those nights I thought I was being a good wife.”
“You were being yourself.”
Camille shook her head.
“He let me make excuses for him.”
She remembered their fifth anniversary.
She had booked reservations at a little restaurant where they celebrated their engagement.
Andre canceled two hours beforehand.
A client emergency, he said.
Camille ate leftover pasta alone and told herself marriage wasn't always romantic.
The next morning, he brought flowers.
She had kept the card.
Forever your Andre.
The memory made her stomach turn.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time the message came from Renee.
Camille, I'm outside. Can we talk?
Lorraine glanced at her daughter.
“You don't have to see anybody.”
Camille wiped her face.
“Let her in.”
Renee entered without her usual confidence.
She had changed out of the elegant dress she'd worn to dinner and pulled on a gray sweatshirt.
“I didn't know about Julian,” she said immediately.
Camille said nothing.
“I swear I didn't.”
“Did you know Andre was seeing somebody?”
“He told me he'd made a mistake. That's all.”
Camille looked up.
“Do you remember the Saturday he helped you move furniture?”
Renee frowned.
“What Saturday?”
“Last October. He told me you needed help with your apartment.”
Renee stared at her.
“I haven't moved anything since spring.”
Camille closed her eyes.
The kitchen became painfully quiet.
Renee sank into the nearest chair.
“Oh, my God.”
Camille almost laughed.
She had spent months feeling guilty for doubting her husband.
Now one simple question had confirmed that the lies went much further than she understood.
Renee leaned forward.
“Camille, I'm sorry. I really didn't know.”
Camille believed her.
That somehow made everything worse.
Andre hadn't merely lied to his wife.
He had borrowed other people's names to make his stories believable.
Renee hesitated.
“There's something else.”
Camille looked at her.
“Tell me.”
“Before the dinner, Andre called me. He said tonight had to work because you'd already heard everything.”
Camille's expression hardened.
“He said that?”
“Yes. He made me promise not to bring up the past. He said we were supposed to help you move forward.”
Camille stared at the table.
Even tonight's hopeful family gathering had been arranged around another lie.
Her phone lit up once more.
This time, the message came from an unfamiliar number.
My name is Julian. I know I hurt you by showing up tonight. I'm sorry. If you want to know how long this has been going on, I'll answer anything you ask.
A second message followed.
I met Andre eighteen months ago.
Camille read it twice.
Eighteen months.
Not the few weeks Andre had confessed to.
Not the mistake he claimed had ended.
Eighteen months of anniversaries, Sunday breakfasts, family holidays, and a porch light left burning for a man who had been living another life.
She put the phone on the table.
May you like
Then she said something that frightened her mother more than her tears.
“Tomorrow, I'm going to find out who I've really been married to.”
