Ivy, a married woman and mom, struggles with her marriage because of her parents’ fractured marriage. When her daughter reveals a secret, Ivy believes that history is repeating itself — and that it’s only a matter of time before her marriage falls apart too. But when the truth comes to light Ivy isn’t sure what to think…
I was a child of divorce. My father had an affair when I was in the eighth grade, and it ruined my mother. In the shadow of the affair, she had become a timid woman — one that lost all her flare for life.
“Does it matter, Ivy?” she would reply whenever I tried to talk about it. “What difference would it make?”
For the following years after that, all I knew was the pain of living in a house with a broken marriage.
“I don’t think I’m going to get married, Mom,” I confessed one day, when my mother and I were baking together.
“Why on earth not?” she asked, stirring away.
“Look at you and Dad. I’ll never be certain if my husband is cheating on me or not.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ivy. Not every man will be like your father,” she chuckled. “There will be better things for you, love. And anyway, now you know what not to do.”
“Which is?” I asked, uncertain about what she was talking about.
“Don’t let your guard down, not even for a moment. But you need to believe in a good marriage, too.”
Despite her words, I was still unsure about getting into any relationships.
Did I really want to be involved with someone, only to later become something stale in their lives?
But then, I met Jordan in a grocery store. And although my walls were up, there was something about him that tore them down. At first, I didn’t know if my loneliness had taken a turn — causing me to want companionship with another person, rather than daydream about the possibilities.
“I’m Jordan,” he said, slurping on a slushy.
“Ivy,” I replied, breaking all the rules I had for myself.
We got married four years later, and I constantly waited for the other shoe to drop.
“I told you, Ivy,” my mother said over tea one evening. “Not everyone is like your father.”
To an extent, my mother was right — Jordan was a great guy.
But I still had my reservations, even after we were married.
And then, years later, a typical morning, with our daughter, changed everything for me — reminding me about my reservations.
My husband, always the early bird, was already making breakfast for us when I walked down in my slippers.
“Ivy, you have to do school drop-off today, okay?” he said, pouring milk into our coffee.
“Sure,” I said, although it was strange. Jordan always did the morning drop-offs and I did the afternoon runs. It was just the way things went since Mia had started school.
“Mom needs me to take to the doctor this morning before work,” he said, pecking me on the cheek. “She’s getting tests done, worried she might faint.”
I nodded, completely understanding. Jordan and his mother were really close, and she often looked to him for support whenever something came up.
There was no hint of the bombshell about to drop when Mia came down for breakfast.
“Ready for school today?” I asked as I brushed her hair.
“Yes, Mom!” she said. “We’re making turkeys out of colored paper today! What’s for breakfast?”
“Dad made pancakes today,” I said.
After sorting Mia out with her breakfast and packing her lunch — we were finally ready to step out when Mia stopped in her tracks.
“Can I see you hand, Mommy?” she asked.
I gave her my hand, and she gasped.
“Mom! Take off your ring,” she said. “You’re only supposed to wear it at home.”
Confused, I knelt to her level.
“Sweetie, who told you that? It’s my wedding ring, I always wear it.”
“Dad always takes his ring off in the mornings, and he puts it behind the wardrobe. Every morning.”
“Show me where?” I asked.
I knew that we were going to be late for school, but I needed to know more about Jordan’s activities — especially if my child seemed to know all about it.
Mia walked up the stairs, one step at a time, her backpack bouncing off her back as she went.
She walked straight into our bedroom and retrieved a small box from behind our wardrobe, handing it to me with a gravity unbefitting her years.
“There,” she said. “You can put yours in here before we go, too. Dad always puts it here before we go to Linda.”
“Linda? Who is Linda?”
“Linda is beautiful, I want to look like Linda when I grow up,” Mia said. “Mommy, she has such long and beautiful hair.”
Sure enough, Jordan’s wedding was inside the box.
My mind raced. And anxiety bubbled inside me. Every memory of my parents’ fractured relationship came flooding back. I turned pale, my hands becoming cold as the anxiety rose.
Was Jordan turning into my father?
What was the secrecy for? And it was his wedding — the only good reason for him to not wear it was because he was meeting someone else. Linda. Linda was probably his mistress.
It had to be that.
There was nothing else.
But why would he do that to us? To Mia and I? The thought of him leading a double life, wanting others to think he wasn’t married, overwhelmed me. I pushed down my anguish to spare Mia, I didn’t want to explain anything to her.
I didn’t want to re-live my childhood.
Not yet.
All day, I was a ghost in my own life, the hours stretching endlessly. I kept thinking of my childhood and the way my mother’s world was torn down due to my father’s actions.
I didn’t know what to do.
I thought about phoning my mother and asking her for advice, but she loved Jordan. I knew she would think of a hundred different reasons for Jordan’s behavior.
I picked Mia up from school and settled her into her afternoon routine — homework and her snacks.
The next day, after dropping Mia off, I followed him, heart pounding, to an unknown house. A young woman with long hair opened the door.
“That must be Linda,” I said to myself, watching Jordan get out of the car and hug her.
He followed her into the house and closed the door behind him, not even glancing at the road.
I drove back home, feeling completely devastated.
I spent the day looking through the window, trying to figure what to do next.
I decided, out of desperation — to remove the ring from Jordan’s hiding spot, waiting for the confrontation when he couldn’t find it.
When Jordan got home from work, he went straight to the bathroom before coming into the kitchen to sit down with Mia and I.
Jordan was upset, I could see it clearly on his face, but he didn’t reveal anything.
“Are you okay, honey?” I asked him, while cutting up Mia’s chicken.
He nodded, refusing to meet my eye.
Later that evening, Jordan revealed that he had misplaced his ring.
“I must have left it on a counter or something,” he said. “Do you think it rolled off and onto the floor? Did you see anything when you were sweeping up?”
I shook my head.
The fact that he was mentioning it to me was a good sign. My father had kept enough secrets from my mother. He only admitted to his affair when he had gotten caught. Everything else was always hidden.
But I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to engage with him until I knew more.
The next morning, I did the exact same thing.
“Jordan, I’ll take Mia to school again,” I said, pouring orange juice into a glass. “I have things to do.”
So, I dropped Mia off and found myself back at the unknown house. Sure enough, Jordan’s car was parked out front.
I walked straight through the door, no need to knock because I needed to catch Jordan in the act.
He was standing in one of the rooms — undressing out of his work clothes, and changing into a pile of clothes lying on the floor. They were overalls covered in paint.
“Jordan? What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, Ivy! What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, pulling on the overalls quickly.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said.
“This is our new home,” he confessed. “I inherited it from Aunt Rose. I wanted us to have more space for Mia, and maybe for another child if we decide to have another baby. I’ve been working on it myself.”
I didn’t know whether to believe him. The gesture was beautiful — we were outgrowing our home, and this new one seemed perfect. Big enough for our family, maybe another child, and even a puppy for Mia.
Just then, we heard the front door slam and the sound of shoes on the wooden floors.
Linda appeared in the doorway.
“Alone, Jordan?” I asked when I saw Linda.
“This is Linda,” Jordan introduced. “She’s the interior designer. She’s my bosses daughter, and she’s using our home as her first big project.”
“It’s so good to finally meet you, Ivy,” Linda gushed, stepping forward to shake my hand. “It’s been a privilege to work on your home. Jordan only speaks about you and Mia.”
“Linda has met Mia,” Jordan explained. “It was a quick meeting to decide on which shade of pink Mia wanted for her room.”
The stories synced — it explained how Mia had met Linda and was floored by her hair, which was as beautiful as my daughter had described.
Tears fell hot and heavy down my face. They were not only tears from relief, but also from remorse for doubting my husband. He explained that he wanted the house renovations to be done before he showed it of to me.
“I wanted it to be special, my love,” he said.
Jordan wrapped me in his arms and took me outside. We sat on the grass and I explained everything to him — from what Mia had said about the wedding ring.
“Ivy,” he said. “I cannot find my ring. I have been removing it since working in the house because on the first day it was covered in paint. It was just too difficult to remove. I didn’t want to do that after every day of working in the house.”
I confessed that I had taken his wedding ring, and that it was safely kept in my jewelry box.
“I wanted to stress you out,” I said. “Because I was convinced that you were cheating on me.”
Jordan laughed nervously.
“Not a chance, Ivy,” he said. “I’m not your father.”
In the weeks that followed, Jordan and I met with Linda frequently, bringing our house to life. Jordan and I painted the walls, and with each stroke of paint, each decision made in unity.
When we finally moved in, Mia ran around the house asking for the puppy she wanted.
“No more secrets, Ivy,” Jordan promised.
Our journey from suspicion to understanding reinforced the foundations of our marriage.
Through it all, I think that I’m finally learning how to heal from my parents’ fractured relationship — just because their marriage had come apart at the seams, it didn’t mean that mine was.
Generational trauma, huh?