Trading My Apron For My Tenure And A Better Man

I was looking for a new electric toothbrush for my husband, Professor Damon Hawthorne, for Valentine's Day. It was a mundane chore, but I still wanted it to feel like a gift.

In the reviews section of a popular online retailer, I saw a comment with over ten thousand likes:

Must Buy! This electric toothbrush is incredibly durable, I havent charged it in six months!

Three days later, an update followed:

My sincere apologies for misleading everyone. It turns out my husband has been charging it the entire time. Im so absent-minded; I only found out today when I pressed him for details, realizing how much he does.

I never replace the toilet paper in the bathroomI just think, 'Wow, this roll lasts forever.' Our streaming subscription never lapses, and I always assumed there was a glitch in the software. And that dry patch on my lips that suddenly disappeared? He was applying lip balm to me in my sleep.

Hes a university professor. I always criticized him for not being romantic, but now I understand: the one who loves you finds a way.

The comments section exploded in swooning adoration. Readers complained that Valentines Day hadnt even arrived, and they were already choking on the sweetness.

Under relentless demand, the original poster finally shared a photographa clear, handsome side profile.

I clicked on it, a familiar, wistful smile on my face, but the smile froze instantly.

The man in the photo was unmistakably my professor husband.

Looking over at my mother-in-law, Mrs. Hawthorne, who had been paralyzed and bedridden for six years, and then considering Damons frequent, convenient stays on campus, a deep chill of dread ran through me.

Sure enough, when I took our marriage certificate to the county clerks office to inquire, the attendant pointed to the raised seal.

Maam, your marriage license appears to be a forgery. Professor Damon Hawthornes record lists another woman as his spouse: Delaney Shaw.

My fingers loosened, and the shockingly red fake certificate clattered to the floor.

A laugh, sharp and desolate, clawed its way out of my throat.

Everyone in the academic community knew Damon Hawthorne and Delaney Shaw were not just Professor and student. She was his star pupil, his intellectual equal, the one who truly understood him.

And me?

I was, apparently, just the free, live-in caregiver.

I stumbled home, the fake license clutched in my hand, the sickeningly familiar odor of urine and stale air hitting my nose.

Mrs. Hawthorne, paralyzed for six years, needed to be changed again.

I wiped her down, cleaned the bed, and disposed of the waste with the practiced indifference of six years. Then, I pulled up the online retailer again.

I stared at that familiar, elegant side profile for a long time before slowly lifting my head.

I looked around the house, meticulously clean, every item exactly where it should be. And I laughed.

The laughter broke, turning into tears that streamed down my face.

Six years.

I had silently propped up this life, this house, for six years. Because of me, Damon could remain above the mess, far from his sick mother's bedside, free to be the celebrated, detached Professor Hawthorne.

Yet, he hadn't had time for a wedding with menot even a simple ceremonywhile simultaneously playing the role of the perfect husband for someone else. And that someone else was Delaney Shaw, the very girl who had once called me "Mrs. Hawthorne" while clinging to my arm.

I scoffed.

I was about to reply to the threadShe knew about me. Your bliss is built on a lie.when I saw the entire thread, photos and all, suddenly disappear.

Moments later, a text arrived from Damon. The tone was all command.

[Students are coming over for dinner tonight. Make sure Mom is clean and prepare a good meal. Especially your Braised Short Ribsmake extra, I need a takeout container for later.]

Braised Short Ribs. If I recalled correctly, that was the dish Delaney had gushed over the last time she was here, saying it was her favorite. I had been foolishly flattered then, urging her to have seconds.

The irony was crushing. I hadn't even recognized my replacement when she was sitting at my dining table.

Yet, six years ago, Damon and I were the perfect match. I was the hottest Teaching Assistant in the Literature Department, and he was the most principled, most revered academicthe high-tower intellectual. He had pursued me for four years.

When we were together, he took care of every detail: the phone that never needed minutes, the feminine products that never ran out, the feeling of leaving the house with a perpetually full phone battery.

When did it all change?

It was the time he tried to share an analysis of 19th-century poetry, and I was frantically scheduling a specialist appointment for his mother.

It was the time he wanted me to help him copy classical texts, and I was frowning while changing his mothers adult diaper.

It was the time he wanted a late-night snowy walk under the moonlight, and I was already asleep, clutching my cracked, working hands.

Willa, you simply dont understand my world. Hed said that to me once, his eyes full of disappointment.

I hadn't paid attention. I was too busy researching the most durable, cost-effective wheelchair for our nonexistent wedding.

But now, I finally understood.

He resented me for losing the poetry and romance of our dating days. Yet, he completely forgot that I was the one who resigned from a tenure-track position to carry the crushing weight of his life.

The old clock on the wall was broken, only the hands still stubbornly ticking in place. The ceaseless, jarring sound made me feel utterly exhausted.

Six years. I had given everything. Id gone from a brilliant academic to a hollow-eyed, worn-out housewife. And he had never even considered me his wife.

Fine.

If this house was just a lie, I was done with it.

Ignoring Damons text, I started packing. To be closer to Mrs. Hawthorne, I had moved out of the master bedroom and into the adjacent study years ago.

The room held pitifully little that belonged to me. Mrs. Hawthornes suppliesdiapers, medicine, beddingwere piled high. Damons thingscalligraphy brushes, antique texts, his pristine writing deskwere perfectly ordered.

All I had was a small, cheap dresser and a vanity. My clothes were dated. My few skincare products had long since expired.

Looking in the mirror, I saw a thirty-year-old woman with a sallow complexion and a look of utter depletion. A stab of pain hit me. I had hollowed myself out for Damon.

I felt a surge of shame, remembering the regret in my mentors eyes when I resigned. For the first time in six years, I dialed Professor Robert Eldridge.

The line picked up immediately.

Willa, you finally decided to call this old fool.

I choked on my words, tears welling up. Professor, Im so sorry I wasted your faith in me, I was too ashamed to call, but now I want to

I told you, you have a place here whenever you want it. Ill start the paperwork. Youll be back on the faculty in three days.

Thank you, Professor.

I hung up, my rough hands trembling around the phone. Tears of relief streamed down.

I still had a way back.

With a final flicker of compassion, I drafted a meticulous list of Mrs. Hawthornes necessities.

As I pulled my suitcase toward the door, Damon walked in, followed by a handful of students.

The moment they caught the smell of the room, they instinctively covered their mouths.

What is that odor? God, it stinks.

Did a dumpster truck drive past with the window open?

Seeing Mrs. Hawthorne's door slightly ajar, Damon immediately understood. His face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. He strode quickly into the study.

Willa Benson, I told you to clean up after Mom! How are we supposed to eat with this smell? Go change her. Now.

I looked up at him, my expression blank. Why should I?

Damon, used to my silence and compliance, stopped dead. He stared at me, disbelievingly. What did you just say?

I said, why should I? Lets be clear, Damon. Shes your mother, not mine.

Willa, are you losing your mind

I cut him off, reaching down for the fake marriage certificate and tossing it onto the floor. I pulled my suitcase, meeting his eyes head-on.

Yes, I was crazy when I thought I was happily marrying you. But today, Im finally lucid. And as of now, I have nothing to do with you.

The old suitcase wheels ground a grating, broken sound across the floora brutal echo of the hopeful silence six years ago when I first moved in. Damon was no longer the beaming young man who had wrapped me in his arms, saying, Welcome home. Now, his eyes were filled with resentment.

Because I havent had time for a wedding, youre going to pull this stunt in front of my students?

The room went completely still.

I turned back, stunned. Even now, he dared to blame me?

Mrs. Hawthorne, Professor Hawthorne is truly very busy. If you want a ceremony, cant you discuss it calmly? Why do you have to force his hand like this? Delaney Shaw jumped in immediately, her voice dripping with protective sympathy for Damon.

The other students quickly backed her up.

Exactly. A wedding is just a formality, why be so traditional?

The Professor is teaching non-stop, hes exhausted. She, on the other hand, chose to be a housewife, sitting around with his money, and she cant even manage his mother.

What can she even do without the Professor?

A wall of young women was suddenly judging me. They saw themselves as the vanguard of modern womanhood, and me as a dependent parasite, ripe for judgment.

They had no idea.

Every loaf of bread, every roll of paper towels, every item in this house had been paid for by my thriftiness. The fees for his mother's specialized care were covered by my late-night freelance editing and grading work.

Damons entire salary was spent on academic retreats with students, fine-art painting supplies, and, I now realized, on his life with Delaney.

My knuckles turned white on the suitcase handle. Thinking of my wasted years, I gave a hollow, bitter laugh.

Thats right. Professor Hawthorne is famous for his clear conscience and noble elegance, yet hes carrying on with his student, a known home-wrecker.

Your mothers mess, and yours, is filthy. As of today, I quit cleaning up after both of you.

I turned to leave, but several students blocked my path.

What are you saying? We spoke the truth, and now youre going to spread slander?

Were here to study with the Professor. Why are you making it sound so ugly?

I slowly turned, my eyes cold and sharp on Damon. I felt a changethe once-brilliant, assertive academic, Willa Benson, was back.

Damons breathing hitched. He glanced down at the crumpled fake marriage certificate. A flicker of panic crossed his face. But then he remembered my six years of obedience, and he seemed to conclude I was simply desperate and couldn't leave him.

He reached into his wallet, pulled out two hundred dollars, and tossed the bills onto the desk.

A wedding is just a catered dinner. If youre truly that desperate, go rent a dress.

Im taking the students to the stone bridge to see the snow. I expect dinner to be ready and everything to be back to normal when we return.

He adjusted his thin, gold-rimmed glasses with his long, recently-softened fingers, and swept out with his entourage.

The heavy front door slammed shut. The next second, I heard the sound of breaking glass from Mrs. Hawthornes room.

I rushed in.

On the floor, next to her withered hand, a pool of scarlet was rapidly spreading. I immediately called 911.

As the piercing ambulance siren approached, Mrs. Hawthorne pleaded with me, her voice faint and weak.

Willa, youre a good girl Damon is just confused right now Dont let me burden you, dont blame him, okay?

My head exploded in a searing rush of sound. The word Mom caught in my throat. I swallowed it, my voice trembling.

You knew? You knew he was going to marry Delaney before he did it?

Mrs. Hawthorne shut her eyes tightly, giving a barely perceptible nod.

I collapsed onto the floor.

My eyes fell on the simple cell phone she wore around her neck for emergencies. On impulse, I took it, unlocking it and opening the social media app.

There, on an album only visible to Damon and Family, were photos of Damon and Delaneys destination wedding.

A snowy mountain, a wedding dress, flowers everywhere.

Their hands were clasped tightly in front of a sacred altar, sweet vows lighting up the screen:

I do.

Forever and always.

These were the vowsthe exact, romantic, self-written promiseshe and I had planned together.

Every comment underneath was a congratulation. Including the students who had just righteously criticized me. Their words implied a single, cruel truth: The unloved one is the true mistress. They saw Damons deceit as charity, a desperate attempt to keep me in my role as the housekeeper I needed to survive.

Domesticity and Romance.

Damon had cleanly separated them. The former was mine; the latter, Delaneys.

When our mutual friends had questioned his sudden silence, he'd posted the photo of his legal marriage license with Delaney, silencing their concerns.

Tears splashed onto the screen, blurring the vows.

When the tears finally stopped, I looked at the woman I had spent six tireless years caring for, and I felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. Just cold detachment.

I spoke the last words I would ever say to her.

I will never forgive either of you.

Her mouth twitched. She strained to whisper, Im sorry, before finally losing consciousness.

The paramedics arrived. A doctor rushed over with a consent form for emergency surgery.

I picked up the pen, then remembered the forged marriage license. I had no right to sign this.

I called Damon. Get to St. Judes Hospital, now. Your mother tried to take her own life and needs emergency surgery.

Through the phone, I heard a mocking chorus of young voices. Delaney snatched the phone away, her tone sharp and undisguised.

Mrs. Hawthorne, you dont have to lie to get the Professor to come home.

Im not lying.

Then why dont you just sign the form?

I looked at the blazing red surgery light and the anxious doctor beside me. I gave a slight, careless smile.

Believe me or dont. But I won't be signing anything.

Willa Benson, you are an absolute disaster! Damon screamed before slamming the phone down.

I snorted, giving the doctor Damon's cell phone number, and quickly downloaded the surveillance footage from Mrs. Hawthornes room.

When the doctor called Damon, he hung up instantly and texted me: [Willa, my cold-weather painting session isnt finished. Stop creating drama.]

[Make sure the ribs are cooking. Well be home soon. Dont forget the takeout container.]

The message was grotesque. But I still sent a photo of the Emergency Room door, out of what little decency I had left.

The response was a red exclamation point.

He had blocked me.

After a few more attempts, Damon eventually turned his phone off.

Watching the drops of blood that led to the Emergency Room, I knew I couldnt wait. I bypassed my old mentor and called the one person I could always count on.

Idiot, whats the penalty for document fraud and fraudulent marriage?