I had a friend once who managed to be delusionally optimistic about her relationship. It wasn’t perfect by any stretch, the word ‘love’ was of the four-letter variety, uttered under one’s breath but rarely shared authentically. You know the drill, you say you love one another, but there’s a hollow ring of truth to it and in some cases, there always has been.
She didn’t get married for love. Instead, she sought the other things that marriage presented; security, status and money. Her husband did very well for himself, allowing her the luxuries of life but none of its love.
She wasn’t happy. Deep down she knew it. But her husband kept her in the manner to which she had become accustomed and the other perks seemed to salve her wounded heart, which knew no love.
It’s not that he wasn’t a good provider. He worked long hours, sacrificing time with the family they had created to advance his career. He was climbing the corporate ladder, becoming a man among men, sometimes putting in 60, even 80 hours a week to be the success his wife thought him to be.
But there was a chink in the armor. She knew deep down that all was not golden in their lives. Sure, she could take fancy trips to exotic locales, but more often than not, she would go it alone; he having to cancel at the last minute, being called out on assignment.
Holidays were the same. There were times when he would suddenly and unexpectedly need to fly out to meet with a client, leaving the family alone on Christmas or Thanksgiving.
For the most part, she played the dutiful role of supportive wife, having given up her own career some time ago to run the house. Somewhere along the way, all her real dreams had been surrendered, all the things she had originally wanted out of life put on hold, or so she thought. She would never return to those desires that had burned so deeply inside her in her youth as she had traded them in on the things she wanted most, security and safety.
She would tell herself that it was a wonderful life. She could buy anything she wanted, dine with friends, tend to the family’s daily needs, wrapped tightly in a cocoon where reality required a rare visitation; something she preferred.
She never entertained the idea that her entire life could be a sham. That her husband wasn’t working all those long hours to build a career, but to feed his own need for love. She never once thought that a last minute trip to D.C. was anything but business.
And the trip was for business. Monkey business. Little did she realize that her husband wasn’t putting in all that time at the office, he was making time with another woman, perhaps even more than one woman.
Yes, she would call him and get voicemail at a time when he should have been in his hotel. Hours would go by before she would get a text. The details of his trips were always vague.
She had gotten used to the routine over time. Perhaps that’s why she never gave it a second thought. Even at home he would suddenly have a late night meeting with a client coming in from out of town. It seemed to make sense. His boss counted on him, he said. Why would she ever wonder if something else was going on?
He was hardly a tiger in bed, after all. In fact, he was kind of cold in that respect. She chalked it up to the way he grew up or the fact that he was of a certain European descent. Anything to avoid the truth.
The truth, of course, was that he was getting plenty of love. He had married her because she made a good trophy wife; a woman of good taste who looked good on his arm, a beauty even in her later years who could be counted on to play the role of the supportive wife and tend to the home that he was rarely in. It was a marriage of convenience for him as well, he has found someone to cook, clean and tend to the little things in life that he had no interest in – the kids, the errands, the volunteer hours in their church and in the community.
He had gotten very good at disguising his movements. His mistress(es) would plead with him to spend Christmas Eve with her this year and he would oblige, scheduling a trip at the last minute to “court a new client.” He’d tell his wife how much he hated this part of his job, how he didn’t want to be away from the family on Christmas, but it was an important client and he was the only one who could close the deal.
Then there were the late nights at work. Thank god for cellphones. Her misgivings were easy to put to rest. A quick trip to the restroom and a brief phone call; one to her three.
She never knew a thing. To cover his tracks, he mired the bank accounts in faux financial dealings, supposed stock transfers, charges that the company would eventually pay him back for, and when several thousand dollars came up missing, he blamed it on a bank error; she didn’t even know how much money he really made.
It was better not to know. She could continue to live the good life in the suburbs, married to a man who didn’t love her and never did, who seemed to work hard and was a good provider, but he was providing the one thing she couldn’t get from him to someone else, his love.
It’s a sad tale, I know. But one that happens all the time in our world. Sadly, I have seen it first hand. I have been the one who made the calls at odd hours or been in a place I wasn’t supposed to be. I only share this tale in the hopes that maybe someone will out there open their eyes, accept the possibilities and know that a life unloved is no life at all, and no amount of money can buy happiness.
In the Emerald City, knowing that you can’t hide your lying eyes forever,
– Robb