I thought I knew him, but we had dated for just a few months when we got engaged. I sometimes wondered exactly what he did for a living, and where his money came from. But whenever I asked he would say, “Oh, don’t be silly, sweetheart.”
There were warning signs. After our wedding, I kept my job and “Jeff ” (not his real name) kept his, although I had no idea what his job was. Some days, I would notice that he didn’t go to work at all. When he was on the phone, he would have entire conversations where he only said, “Thank you. Well, thank you. Thank you very much.” Several times, I overheard him saying, “Yeah, she’s sexy. She’d be good.” Other times, he would have to leave for a week.
I would ask, “Where are you going?,” and he’d answer, “Oh, you know me, gotta go to the Coast.” No, I didn’t know him.
On those trips, he’d let me know that he registered in hotels under a different name. Sometimes it was “Mr. Clean.” Sometimes it would be “Todd Randolph.” In every other respect, however, he was a wonderful husband.
This story is from the April 17, 2023 edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the April 17, 2023 edition of The New Yorker.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
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