Not psychic enough to be useful

Sometime last fall, M met up with some folks he’d worked with for a year or so in a temporary position. I’d met them before and liked him, but I wasn’t feeling like a night out drinking, so I told him to go on without me.

Around 9:30 pm that night, I got a prickly thought out of nowhere: Someone is totally hitting on him right now.

When he got home around midnight and came upstairs, I asked, Did somebody hit on you tonight?

He started laughing, incredulous. How did you know that?

I don’t know. I literally sat up straight around 9:30 and just knew. What happened?

Just for the record: This was the first time in our entire marriage that I’d asked this. He’s always around women, at work and on his co-ed soccer teams. I’ve seen a few of them flirt with him a little, but it never fazed me too much. His friends from work and soccer always said, He talks about you all the time. He’s so proud of you. He loves you so much.

I figured there was no better barometer, if he was talking up wifey when she wasn’t there. I used to feel so sure of us, I would tell people, If he ever cheated on me, I would honestly be the last to believe it.

What happened?

He got changed for bed as he told me. They’d been to two or three bars in NE Minneapolis. A bunch of them were all packed into a big booth.

And?

She’s one of the nurses. She’s going through a divorce and she was telling me all about it.

Uh huh.

And so at one point she has her hand on my thigh under the table.

Seriously?

I can’t believe you just knew.

He seemed really impressed.

So what did you do? I asked.

Oh, well, she was drunk. He loaded up his toothbrush with Crest.

What does that mean?

He shrugged. Through toothpaste, he said, I don’t know, I didn’t think much of it.

I wasn’t worried. But I felt like I was missing some info.

But what did you do? Did you get up? Did you move away from her?

He spit out his toothpaste. Well, I was the one all the way in the corner so I couldn’t get up.

You couldn’t get up?

He snapped off the bathroom light and climbed into bed with me, smiling.

Yeah. I can’t BELIEVE you just knew. That’s crazy.

He kissed me. Goodnight. I love you.

Not long after that, his current workplace had a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the new location. That was late November 2025. I need to repeat these dates to myself to remember that I’m not crazy for still feeling so shocked.

Reporters, tours, cupcakes. The comically big ceremonial scissors. I wonder where they get them. Photographs outside the building. The whole team was there.

He tugged me into one of their group photos. I pulled away.

You should be here, you’re part of the team, he said. He kept his hand on my shoulder. There were tall people in front of me. Which was good, because I felt odd being included. But his gesture was so very sweet.

When the tours wrapped up and visitors left, his team pulled up in a conference room, eating leftover cupcakes and trading western Wisconsin stories. I loved these folks. Great people. Smart, no-nonsense, funny, warm. They always made me feel super welcome.

M scooched his chair closer to mine and held my hand as we all chatted. I remember thinking how nice it felt: to be part of this community, to know their spouses, to feel like he was proud to have me with him.

One of his colleagues teased her husband about a recent night out. M perked up and said, You guys won’t believe this. I came home one night and Jenn asked if somebody had hit on me. She just KNEW.

It wasn’t something I’d ever asked before, I wanted them to know, because obviously.

Wait, what happened? They wanted details, because obviously.

He told them the same thing he’d told me. Nurse from the old hospital, sad story, divorcing, hand on his leg.

But what did you DO? they also wanted to know.

Well, I was way in the corner so I couldn’t just get up.

Groans and howls from everyone in the room.

I know, right? I said.

His female colleague S, smart as a whip, yelled, YOU COULDN’T JUST GET UP? Did you move her hand? NO? M!!!

They all chastised him soundly. Even the guys, which I appreciated.

S’s husband said, Watch it, buddy. Now you know your wife is psychic.

We used to joke about how loyal M was. I’d say I was sure if the world’s hottest young woman sat naked on his lap, he’d excuse himself from the situation. He’d laugh but agree with me. I don’t know how people have time for that. And I could never be with someone younger. It would be too exhausting.

I found one of L’s plastic princess rings in his passenger seat door pocket years ago. It became a running joke that “Becky” had left it there. I don’t know how we came up with Becky, but the whole fam was in on the running gag about his secret mistress. Sometimes we’d pretend that when he’d been working late, he’d been with Becky.

As my dad would say, you had to be there.

It was lot funnier last year.

Sometimes, I wish I were a little more psychic. I wish I had psychic abilities that were a little more reliable, a little more useful. But how awful would that be, too?

I get asked a lot these days if there’s a real Becky. People are placing bets, especially my lawyer, who’s seen it all and has zero faith in most humans.

The truth is, I don’t know, and I might never know. I’ve asked more than once. He’s denied it.

Sometimes I wonder if I would hurt less if there were a Becky. Fifteen years younger, skinnier, sportier, great career, the whole grand, glossy cliche. I can’t tell you how lousy it feels to know your person would rather be alone than stay with you a minute longer. Or how lousy it feels that the person who is terrified of being taken advantage of financially would rather throw half of his money out the window then stay with you a minute longer and work shit out.

I’m not saying I did even half of things right. I just wish he’d given me a chance to get to three-quarters. I just wish he’d talked to me instead of the ghosts in his head.

My heart is wrecked. I can’t imagine being with someone again. I don’t know how to get past the pain, I really don’t. I have to remind myself every few days that it was just half a year ago that he was stroking my hand in front of his team and tugging me into a group photo. Half a year ago that he was bidding on a trip to Tuscany for us, with wine-tasting, we’ve always talked about going. Half a year ago that he was surprising me with a fancy watch and a handsome wooden box that rotated it so it was always on the right time and date. Half a year ago that we were talking about where we’d go when he retired. Half a year ago that he was dedicating a couples’ skate to me with the help of a roller rink DJ, in front of 80 strangers in Burnsville. The grin on his face. How did I do? Are you surprised?

I mention the Tuscany trip and the watch because they were so recent, and I naively took them as signs that we were more than okay. I never needed the trips, but of course I loved traveling with him. I also loved going to Costco with him too, or to conferences for the kids at the high school, or to get gas. I never asked him for a new car or fancy jewelry or tuition for my girls. I never asked for an art studio or a big blue house in Stillwater. I was amazed by these things and felt lucky as hell.

Some of you knew me back when all I was dreaming about was a cranberry-colored screen door or a fixed front porch. I didn’t have big material dreams. And when M and I married, I believed my husband when he said it made him happy to do these things for me. So I accepted them gratefully and made sure he knew how lucky I felt.

But those weren’t ever the reasons I was there. And I didn’t know that accepting those things would turn out to be a test I failed.

I know why I was there. I know who I thought I was there with.

It was just half a year ago that he was kissing me goodnight, every night.

After he said goodnight, if he turned away from me in bed because of his bad hip, he’d say in his already half-asleep voice, I’m not turning away because of anything but my hip. I love you.

Can you imagine? How lovely that felt, to feel loved like that?

Not because of anything but my hip. I love you.

I miss that person so much.

I’ve been lucky to have good health, so I don’t know how it feels to have cancer. But I feel the grief of this loss so deeply in my bones, in my chest, that I wonder if it could be close.

If I had to guess, I’d guess there’s a Becky he’s let inch a little too close. A Becky who’s gotten under his skin, if not on top of it yet. I think she’ll be someone I know now, or someone I’ve heard of. Maybe “just a friend” who’s listened to his sad tale about his almost-ex-wife who took advantage of his generosity, who married him for his money, just like his mom warned him she would. Maybe Becky’s already sat at the black dinette set I helped him pick out for the new apartment, the one that was supposed to be ours, the one I never saw furnished. Maybe she’s already enjoyed the terracotta sheets I thought he’d like. Or maybe she’s an old friend who’s always wondered if she might get a shot, who’s planning on it when the dust settles.

I think the people who love me will keep me in the dark as long as they can when they know, when there is a confirmed Becky. I’m kind of hoping to make it to my deathbed without knowing. That’s my plan. Don’t tell me a thing.

That reminds me of the other thing about November 2025: He took me to see the musical of The Notebook in Saint Paul. His idea. A surprise on an icy night for his musical-loving wife. He squeezed my fingers the whole way through.

We’d seen the movie. I had always told him that was the only acceptable death for us.

We have to go out holding hands so I don’t have to go a day without you.

We’ll just fall asleep and die and never have to be without each other.

It’s perfect.

Deal? Deal.