My Twin Sister Married My Husband for His Millions, But His Final Will Revealed a Secret She Never Expected
His name was Arthur, and he was a real estate agent. Our first date was at a little neighborhood Italian restaurant, the kind with checkered tablecloths and Chianti bottles as candle holders.
I was so nervous I knocked over my water glass within the first five minutes. I was mortified, but Arthur just laughed, a warm, easy sound, and helped me mop it up with a napkin. He had a way of making you feel at ease.
He wasn’t like the loud, brash men Beatrice always dated. He was calm, observant, and he had the kindest eyes I had ever seen. He had this quiet warmth that drew people in without demanding attention.
I spent most of the dinner talking about my students, rambling on about lesson plans and playground drama. I was sure I was boring him to tears. But he never looked bored. He listened, truly listened, nodding and asking thoughtful questions.
«So, what book are you reading with them now?» he’d ask, or, «What’s the funniest thing a student said this week?»
Towards the end of the night, as we were waiting for the check, he looked at me across the table, his gaze so direct it made my heart flutter.
«You know,» he said softly, «you talk about those kids with so much love. It’s really something special.» He paused, then added, «You’re different, in a good way. The kind of different that stays with you.»
Those words were like water on parched earth. No one had ever called my quietness peaceful. They called it shy, withdrawn, antisocial. But Arthur saw it as a strength. He saw me.
We dated for two years before getting married. Our courtship was as quiet and gentle as he was. We took long walks in the park, cooked dinner together, and spent hours just talking.
He proposed on a rainy Tuesday night. We were in our small, cozy apartment, curled up on the couch, listening to the rain patter against the window. He hadn’t made my favorite dinner or planned some grand gesture.
He just turned to me, took my hand, and his eyes were full of a sincere, overwhelming love.
«Audrey,» he began, his voice a little thick. «I never knew a life could be this peaceful. I never knew I could be this happy. I don’t want to spend a single day without this. Will you marry me?»
He pulled out a small box. Inside was a simple, elegant ring that was more beautiful to me than any flashy diamond Beatrice’s boyfriends ever bought her. Tears streamed down my face as I said yes.
They were happy tears, pure and simple. For the first time in my life, I felt completely and utterly chosen.
Our life together wasn’t a fairy tale, but it was real and it was good. His steady job and my teacher’s salary were enough to afford the down payment on a small but charming bungalow in a neighborhood with big oak trees.
We spent our first year in that house making it our own. We painted the walls a soft yellow, planted a garden in the backyard, and scoured flea markets for furniture that had character. Arthur was surprisingly handy.
I remember one Saturday we spent all day assembling a bookshelf, laughing as we kept putting the shelves in upside down. That bookshelf, crooked as it was, became my favorite piece of furniture.
Our life was built on small, happy rituals. Saturday morning breakfast at the Bluebonnet Diner, where the waitress, a woman named Flo, always called us lovebirds. Sunday afternoons spent reading side by side on the couch.
We never had children; after a few years of trying, we accepted it wasn’t meant to be, and we found contentment in our life together. Our home was quiet, filled with books, the smell of Arthur’s coffee in the morning, and a deep, abiding sense of peace.
Arthur was my biggest cheerleader. He believed in me more than I believed in myself. When I was offered a small promotion to lead teacher for my grade level, I was terrified of the extra responsibility. Arthur sat with me for hours, making lists of all the reasons I was qualified, telling me how proud he was.
He made me feel capable. He made me feel strong.
During those years, my contact with Beatrice was sporadic. She was a high-powered marketing executive in New York now, living a life that seemed a world away from mine. She’d call every few months, usually when she had something new to brag about.
«Oh, Audrey, you wouldn’t believe it,» she’d say, her voice crackling with energy. «My firm just landed the Coca-Cola account. And my new boyfriend, he’s a hedge fund manager, just whisked me away to Paris for the weekend.»
I’d listen, offering polite congratulations. «That’s wonderful, Beatrice. I’m so happy for you.»
Then I’d tell her about my new reading program for my first graders or the tomatoes we were growing in our garden. I could almost hear her eyes glazing over through the phone line.
«Well, that’s sweet, honey,» she’d inevitably say, her tone a mixture of pity and condescension. «As long as you’re happy with your simple little life.»
The thing was, her words no longer had the power to hurt me. Because I was happy. I wasn’t living a life that would make for a flashy magazine article, but it was a life rich with love and purpose.
I had a man who cherished me for exactly who I was. I had a job that made a difference. I didn’t need Paris or hedge fund managers. I had everything I had ever truly wanted right there in that little bungalow, with my kind, steady Arthur by my side.
For ten wonderful years, I believed our quiet, simple love was invincible. The change, when it came, was like the tide slowly going out, so gradually you don’t notice the shoreline has moved until you look up and see acres of exposed, barren sand.
It started around our tenth wedding anniversary. Arthur began working later. At first, it was just an hour or two.
«Big project at work,» he’d say, giving me a tired kiss on the cheek before disappearing into his home office.
But soon, he was coming home after I’d already eaten dinner, long after the sun had set. The smell of his coffee was no longer the first thing I noticed in the morning, because he was often gone before I even woke up.
Our dinner table, once the hub of our day where we’d reconnect and share stories, grew quiet. I would try to fill the silence, talking about my students, but his responses became shorter, more distracted. He’d nod and murmur, «That’s nice, honey,» but his eyes would be distant, his mind clearly somewhere else.
I remember one evening I was especially excited. I had finally gotten a shy, withdrawn student to read aloud in front of the class. It was a huge breakthrough. I couldn’t wait to tell Arthur.
I made his favorite meal, shepherd’s pie, and waited. He didn’t get home until almost nine. He walked in, dropped his briefcase by the door with a heavy thud, and loosened his tie.
«Long day,» he grunted, heading for the refrigerator.
«I made your favorite,» I said, trying to keep my voice light.
«Not hungry,» he said, grabbing a beer and closing the door. He didn’t even look at the table I had set.
I stood there in the kitchen, the story about my student dying on my lips. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with things I didn’t understand. The loving, attentive man I had married was being replaced by a ghost, a polite stranger who shared my house but not my life.
I tried to talk to him, of course. Countless times.
«Is everything okay at work, Arthur? You seem so stressed.»
«It’s just work, Audrey. Don’t worry about it.»
«Are we okay?» I asked one night, my voice small, as we lay in bed, a cold foot of distance between us.
He just rolled over, his back to me. «We’re fine. I’m just tired. Go to sleep.»
But we weren’t fine. A cold dread, a feeling I hadn’t experienced since my childhood, began to creep back into my life. It was the feeling of being invisible, of being a problem to be managed rather than a person to be loved.
I felt like I was losing him, and I had no idea why.
The night it all shattered was a Thursday. The air in our house was so thick with unspoken words it felt hard to breathe. Arthur had been a phantom all week, barely speaking to me. I had decided that night, I would demand an answer. I couldn’t live in this suffocating silence any longer.
I cooked dinner, but neither of us ate much. I just pushed a piece of chicken around my plate, my stomach in knots. Finally, I put my fork down. The soft clink against the ceramic plate sounded like a thunderclap in the quiet room.
«Arthur, we have to talk,» I started, my voice trembling slightly.
He finally looked up from his plate. He met my eyes, and for the first time in months, his gaze was clear, direct, and utterly cold. There was no warmth, no love, nothing. It was like looking at a stranger.
«You’re right,» he said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. «We do.»
He took a breath, and the next four words detonated my life.
«I want a divorce.»
The world tilted on its axis. The air rushed out of my lungs. I’m sure I said something, maybe his name, maybe a choked «what,» but I couldn’t hear it over the roaring in my ears.
It felt like a dream, a nightmare. This couldn’t be happening. Not to us. Not to Arthur and me.
«Why?» I finally managed to whisper, the word scraping my raw throat. «What did I do?»
«It’s over, Audrey,» he said, his voice like stone. He wouldn’t give me a reason. He just repeated the words like a death sentence. «I’ve made up my mind.»
Before I could process, before I could scream or plead or fall apart, the doorbell rang. A sharp, cheerful, two-note chime that was so grotesquely out of place it felt like a sound from another universe.
I sat there, frozen, unable to move, as Arthur calmly stood up, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and walked to the front door. I heard the lock turn. I heard the door open.
And then I heard the sound that would haunt my nightmares for months to come: the confident, triumphant click-clack of high heels on our hardwood floor.
Beatrice strutted into our dining room. She was a vision in a sharp, expensive-looking red dress. Her hair was perfect, her makeup was perfect, and a wide, predatory smile was plastered across her face.
She walked right up to Arthur, my husband, and tapped her arm into his as if she belonged there. He didn’t pull away. He just stood there, a statue, his face a blank mask.
Beatrice looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my simple clothes, my stunned, tear-streaked face. Her smile widened, a cruel, satisfied slash of red lipstick.
