My Husband's Mission Was to Erase Me
The burner phone felt cold in my hand, a slick, impersonal rectangle of black plastic.
It didn't belong here, tucked away in the dark, oily space behind the spare tire in our garage.
It didn't belong to Keith.
My Keith, the man who curated his digital life with the precision of a museum director, wouldn't be caught dead with a cheap, untraceable piece of junk like this.
My fingers, trembling, swiped it open.
There was no password.
Of course not.
Passwords leave a trail.
Only one item on the screen: a draft, saved in a simple notes app.
My breath hitched.
"Seeking advice," it began.
The words swam before my eyes, each one a small, sharp betrayal.
"How to leave my wife with nothing, but still make sure my son takes care of me in my old age? The wife is a good person, no affairs, but the kid is almost grown. The mission is accomplished. I feel suffocated. I want my freedom."
Bile rose in my throat, hot and acidic.
The mission.
Was that what I was?
What Cameron was?
A mission.
Completed.
My gaze drifted to the single "like" on the post's only substantive comment.
"Find someone to trick your mother into a bogus investment scheme, preferably with an acquaintance you trust. Drain the family accounts. Then, frame it as a noble act to protect your wife from the debt and divorce her. Not only will she be grateful, she'll help you raise the kid and look after your mom. In a few years, the kid will be old enough to provide for you. You walk away with the cash and live your life."
A wave of nausea so profound washed over me that I had to brace myself against the dusty shelves.
This wasn't just a fantasy.
It was a blueprint.
A cold, meticulously crafted plan for my destruction.
His footsteps on the stairs.
Each one a hammer blow against my heart.
I had ten seconds to erase myself.
§02
The next morning, the air in our kitchen was thick with a forced cheerfulness.
Keith kissed my cheek as he grabbed his coffee, his lips cool against my skin.
"Morning, Mona," he said, his voice the same warm baritone that had once been the soundtrack to my life.
Now, it sounded like a recording.
I watched him, searching for a crack in the facade.
A flicker of guilt.
A shadow of deceit.
There was nothing.
Just the familiar, handsome face of the man I had loved for fifteen years.
The man who saw me as a completed mission.
He sighed, a perfectly calibrated sound of weary responsibility.
"Mom's gotten involved with this 'AuraStone' investment group," he said, leaning against the counter. "She wants to buy a 'foundational energy crystal.' Five thousand dollars."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
It was starting.
"I told her no, absolutely not," he continued, shaking his head. "But she's obsessed, like she's been brainwashed."
I forced my voice to remain steady. "Those things are scams, Keith."
"I know," he said, his eyes filled with a counterfeit concern. "But you know how she is. Stubborn."
He was testing me.
Seeing if I would take the bait, become the nagging, skeptical daughter-in-law.
I played my part.
"We have to stop her," I said, my voice laced with the appropriate amount of alarm. "Five thousand dollars is a lot of money."
He nodded, his expression grim. "I'll try to talk to her again. Don't worry, Mona. I'll handle it."
He was handling it, all right.
He was stage-managing the entire production.
§03
Her first "AuraStone" arrived two days later. It was followed by an eight-thousand-dollar 'amplification pyramid' and a thirty-eight-hundred-dollar "personal harmony pendant."
Our bank account, once a healthy cushion against the anxieties of suburban life, deflated like a punctured lung.
I didn't cry.
I didn't scream.
I watched, a silent observer at the demolition of my own life, and I planned.
While Keith was at work, I began building my escape route.
My food blog, a little hobby I'd started years ago, became my secret obsession.
I spent hours researching SEO, practicing my photography, writing posts with a desperate, feverish energy.
It was my lifeline, the only part of my world Keith hadn't contaminated.
One afternoon, Cameron came home from school to find me staring at the latest monstrosity Esther had purchased—a collection of "energized artifacts" that looked like glorified paperweights.
He was seventeen, with Keith's height but my eyes—thoughtful, perceptive.
He knew something was wrong.
"Mom?" he said, his voice gentle. "Are you okay?"
I looked at my son, this beautiful, kind young man who was the only authentic thing left in my life.
I pulled him into a hug, burying my face in his shoulder.
"We're going to be okay," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "No matter what happens, you and I, we're a team."
He held me tight. "Always, Mom."
He had come out to me a year ago.
It wasn't a dramatic, tear-filled confession.
Just a quiet conversation in the car one day after school.
"Mom," he'd said, staring out the window. "I think I like boys. Like, *like* like them."
I had pulled the car over, my heart swelling with a fierce, protective love.
"Okay," I said, turning to him. "Thank you for telling me. Does this mean I have to start being nice to Ben?"
A slow smile spread across his face, chasing away the anxiety in his eyes. "It wouldn't hurt."
"I love you, Cam," I told him, my voice thick with emotion. "All of you. Always."
That was the mission.
Not the house, not the marriage.
Him.
His safety.
His happiness.
And I would burn the world down to protect it.
§04
The police officer was young, his face a mask of professional sympathy.
"These are just ordinary stones, ma'am," he said to Esther, his voice gentle. "Some of them are even slightly radioactive. They have no therapeutic value at all."
He gestured to the pile of expensive junk on our living room floor.
"We'll file a report, but to be honest, the money is likely gone for good. These operations are ghosts."
Esther stared at him, her face ashen.
The reality was finally breaking through the wall of hypnotic sales pitches and false promises.
She had been conned.
She had bankrupted her son's family.
That night, Keith sat on the edge of our bed, his posture radiating a manufactured despair.
"Mona," he began, his voice heavy. "Don't blame Mom. She's old, she got confused. But with all this debt... we'll never recover."
He paused, letting the silence hang in the air.
"I think... I think we should get a divorce."
There it was.
The next line in the script.
"If I'm a deadbeat, it won't affect your credit," he said, his voice cracking with false emotion. "This is all my mom's fault, it has nothing to do with you. I can't drag you and Cam down with me."
He wouldn't look at me.
He couldn't.
"There has to be another way," I whispered, playing my role. My nails dug into my palms. "I'm not afraid of the debt, Keith. We're a family."
He finally turned to me, his eyes shining with unshed, crocodile tears.
"No, Mona. I can't. A friend of mine has a job for me, high-paying, but... it's out of state. I'll go, I'll work, I'll send money home. I'll pay this off. And once it's done, I'll come back, and we can get married again."
He was an artist.
A virtuoso of deceit.
"Let me come with you," I pleaded, my voice breaking. "We can do this together."
For a split second, the mask slipped.
His face tightened, a flash of raw irritation in his eyes.
"Don't cry!" he snapped, his voice sharp.
He caught himself immediately, softening his tone. "I mean... you have to stay here for Cam. He needs you. This is my burden to bear, Mona. I won't let you carry it."
I looked at the man I had married, at this stranger with my husband's face, and felt a chilling clarity.
He had already left.
He had been gone for a long, long time.
"Okay," I said, my voice a hollow echo in the room. "If you think it's for the best."
He stood up, a look of profound relief washing over his features before he could conceal it.
"I've made the appointment at the city hall," he said, his back to me as he straightened his tie. "I leave in a month."
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