The Wrong Side of the Bed

Part 2: The Truth Behind the Door

I stared at the message on Ryan’s phone.

She knows about the bed. We need to talk before you tell her everything.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then I looked at Ryan.

“How long?”

He swallowed.

“Claire…”

“How long have you and Megan been keeping secrets from me?”

“It’s not what you think.”

I laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“That’s interesting. Because I haven’t even told you what I think.”

Ryan rubbed his forehead.

“Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“Claire, please. This is complicated.”

“Then start explaining.”

He glanced toward the bedroom door, as if hoping someone would walk in and rescue him.

Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Megan and I have been talking for a while.”

My stomach tightened.

“Talking about what?”

“About you.”

I stared at him.

“Me?”

He nodded slowly.

“About your health. Your sleeping habits. Things you’ve been doing lately.”

I almost dropped the phone.

“My health?”

Ryan looked uncomfortable.

“Remember last year when you started waking up with headaches? And when you occasionally forgot things?”

I remembered.

I’d been exhausted for months, but my doctor had said it was probably stress. Ryan had insisted that I take some time off work.

“Megan told you about that?”

“She was worried.”

“Why would my best friend discuss my medical concerns with my husband behind my back?”

Ryan didn’t answer immediately.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

“Because she was the first person who noticed the changes.”

I stepped backward.

“What changes?”

Before he could answer, someone knocked on the front door.

Three quick knocks.

Ryan looked toward the hallway.

I knew that expression.

He wasn’t surprised.

He was expecting someone.

I walked downstairs and opened the door.

Megan stood on the porch, holding a paper bag from my favorite bakery.

Her smile disappeared when she saw my face.

“Claire.”

I stepped aside.

“Come in. Apparently, you have something to explain.”

She looked past me toward Ryan, who had just appeared at the top of the stairs.

For the first time in eleven years, my best friend looked genuinely afraid of me.

We sat in the living room.

I placed Ryan’s phone on the coffee table, the message still visible.

Megan stared at it.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she whispered.

I folded my arms.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have sent it.”

Ryan sat beside me, but I shifted away.

“Tell her,” he said quietly.

Megan shook her head.

“You tell her. You’re her husband.”

I looked between them.

“Stop deciding who gets to tell me things. I’m sitting right here.”

Megan took a deep breath.

“Claire, eight months ago, Ryan found something in the attic.”

“What?”

“A box. It belonged to your mother.”

My heart skipped.

My mother had died when I was twenty-four. After her funeral, I had packed most of her belongings into storage boxes.

I hadn’t opened them in years.

“What does that have to do with my bed?”

Ryan finally spoke.

“Your mother left something for you. Something she specifically asked me to keep safe until the right time.”

I stared at him.

“Why would my mother leave something with my husband?”

“Because she knew me before you did,” he replied.

That was true.

My mother had worked with Ryan’s father for years. Ryan and I had actually met at a charity event she organized.

But I still couldn’t understand.

“What was in the box?”

Megan reached into her handbag and pulled out a small envelope.

My name was written across it in my mother’s handwriting.

I recognized it immediately.

My hands began trembling.

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a photograph of my mother standing beside a young woman.

The woman was Megan.

But the photograph was dated twenty-seven years earlier.

I looked up.

“Megan?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“There’s something about my past you never knew.”

Before she could continue, Ryan stood up.

“Claire, you need to read the letter first.”

I unfolded the paper.

And as I read the first sentence, the room seemed to disappear around me.

My dearest Claire, if you are reading this, it means the truth about the night you were born has finally come back to find you.

I stopped breathing.

The letter continued.

There is something I should have told you a long time ago. The woman you have always known as your best friend may be the only person who can explain why I kept this secret.

I slowly lowered the paper.

Megan was crying now.

And for the first time, I wondered whether she had become my best friend by coincidence.

Or whether she had been looking for me all along.