Off The Record
My Husband Left Me For My Sister And Got Her Pregnant — On Their Wedding Day, Karma Finally Found Them
While my ex-husband married my sister, I remained at home. I had to witness it for myself, though, when my other sister doused them in red paint and exposed him in the middle of the toast.
Hello, I’m Lucy. I am 32 years old, and until about a year ago, I believed that I was living the kind of life that most people only dream about. A reliable career, a comfortable home, and a husband who put small messages in my lunchbox and kissed my forehead before work.
I was employed by a dental company outside of Milwaukee as a billing coordinator. I liked it, even though it wasn’t glamorous. I enjoyed my lunchtime walks and my routine. My husband Oliver used to say, “Hi, beautiful,” even when I was still applying acne cream, and I enjoyed the way my warm socks felt after being dried.
However, perhaps I should have realized that life wouldn’t remain so straightforward.
Nothing will teach you more about chaos than the fact that I grew up in a home with three younger sisters. Judy, who is now thirty years old, is tall, blonde, and the life of the party. She possessed that effortless quality even at the age of 13. Unreasonably, people handed her free items.
The middle child, Lizzie, is composed and analytical. She once used charm and reason to persuade a mall police officer to drop a shoplifting prosecution. Last but not least is Misty, a 26-year-old who is dramatic, erratic, and somehow both our boss and our baby. When her name was spelled “Missy” on the cup, she once got into a heated argument at a Starbucks.
I was the trustworthy one and the oldest. The one Mom used as a warning every time the others tried to do something foolish, the first to get braces, the first to obtain a job.
“At age 21, do you wish to live with your boyfriend? Recall how Lucy’s situation turned out.”
On most days, I didn’t mind. I enjoyed being the person who could fix the walls or pay taxes. They phoned me whenever they needed anything, be it a transportation to a job interview, rent money, or someone to pull their hair back at three in the morning. And I was always there.
And it felt like someone was finally coming through for me when I met Oliver.
He was 34, an IT professional, and exuded a serene aura that gave you hope that things would work out. He poured tea for me when I had headaches, made me giggle till my stomach hurt, and tucked me in when I dozed off while watching documentaries on true crime on the couch.
After two years of marriage, we found our rhythm. We played board games in our pajamas on lazy Sundays, had inside jokes, and had takeaway on Fridays. Our first child was six months along when I became pregnant. We had previously decided on a name: Nate for a boy and Emma for a girl.
Then he arrived home late one Thursday night. He was standing in the doorway with his hands clinched as I was in the kitchen preparing stir-fried vegetables.
He said, “Lucy,” “we need to talk.”
I recall using the dishtowel to wipe my hands while my heart skipped a beat but not in a panic. I assumed he had either crashed the car or been laid off once more. Something that can be fixed.
But his face. I can still recall it. Drawn and pale. He appeared to have been suppressing something for days.
“Judy’s pregnant,” he remarked after taking a deep breath.
I blinked.
Initially, I chuckled. In fact, I laughed. My throat just made this dry, startled sound.
I looked at him and asked, “Wait,” “my sister Judy?”
He didn’t respond. Just a single nod.
Everything swayed. All I can recall is the sizzling sound of the pan behind me. There was just a heavy silence that made it difficult for me to stand.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he blurted out without explanation. “Lucy, we didn’t plan it. Simply put, we fell in love. I had had enough of lying to you. I can’t resist it. I’m so sorry.”
My hands automatically went to my stomach as I peered at him. During the moment when my entire world collapsed, I could feel her kick—our unborn daughter.
Softly, “I want a divorce,” he said. “I want to be with her.”
“Please don’t hate her,” he continued, as though it might assist in some way. I was to blame for this. I’ll look after you two. I promise.
How I got to the couch is a mystery to me. I can still picture the walls closing in as I sat there and stared. The scent of burning garlic permeated everything. I was at a loss for what to do with my hands while my baby moved.
The fallout was swift. Mom told me that although she was “heartbroken,” “love is complicated.” Dad didn’t say anything. While reading the newspaper, he continued to mumble that “kids these days have no shame.”
The only person who appeared to be upset with me, Lizzie, stopped attending family dinners. The entire incident was described by her as “a slow-motion train wreck.”
Individuals muttered. Not only relatives, but also coworkers and neighbors. I even received a fake-sweet Facebook post from my old lab partner from high school saying, “I heard what happened.” If you ever feel the desire to speak As if I had forgotten how she used to flirt with my prom date and steal my pencils.
The worst part then arrived. the tension. The nausea persisted. Every night, the sorrow weighed heavily on my chest. I began to bleed three weeks after Oliver unleashed the bomb.
It was too late.
Without anybody at my side, I lost Emma in a chilly, white hospital room.
Oliver did not appear. Not even a phone call. I once received a text from Judy saying, “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
That was it. That was my sister’s only statement.
With a baby on the way, they made the decision to get married a few months later. The wedding, which had 200 guests and was held at the most elegant location in town, was sponsored by my parents. “The child needs a father,” they declared, and “It’s time to move on.”
I received an invitation from them. As if I were a distant relative or a coworker. My name was printed in that phony gold calligraphy, and I recall holding it in my hands.
I didn’t go. I was unable to go.
I stayed in that evening. I watched awful romance flicks and wore Oliver’s old hoodie. The kind where, at the end, everyone is content and in love. Before everything went awry, I settled up with a bottle of wine and some popcorn, trying not to imagine Judy coming down the aisle wearing a dress that I had once assisted her in choosing on a random girl’s day.
It was about 9:30 p.m. when my phone rang.
Misty was there.
She was laughing in a breathless manner that instantly made me sit up, even if her voice was trembling.
“Lucy,” she began, half yelling, half whispering, “you won’t believe what occurred just now. Put on your clothes. Sweater, jeans, anything. Take a car to the eatery. This is something you don’t want to miss.”
Stunned, I stopped.
“What are you talking about?”
She had already hung up.
Saying, “Just trust me,” “Come on over.” “Now.”
When Misty hung up, I looked at my phone for a few seconds. I kept my thumb over the screen in case she called back to clarify that she was joking.
She didn’t.
Rather, I listened to the quiet in my flat, broken only by the quiet hum of the dishwasher and the far-off hum of traffic outside. I wanted to disregard it all, part of myself. I had endured enough suffering already, and to be honest, I didn’t believe I could bear to see any more.
But I couldn’t get Misty’s voice out of my head. It wasn’t sympathy. Not even pity was involved. Something else was there, something alive and keen, as if she had just witnessed a matchstick fall into gasoline.
And I wanted to see it for myself, whatever that thing was.
After ten minutes, my heart was racing as I drove across town.
I sensed right away that something was wrong when I pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. Outside the entrance, people in suits and gowns were huddled in groups, their arms crossed, phones out, eyes wide, and whispering. When I walked along the sidewalk, a woman in a lilac dress genuinely gasped.
The air was heavy within. Everybody was speaking quietly. The greatest bustle appeared to be in the front of the hall, where some visitors were straining their necks.
And there they were.
Judy’s white bridal gown was completely covered in what seemed to be blood as she stood close to the flowery archway. To her shoulders, her hair adhered. Oliver, his tux destroyed and oozing red, was at her side, attempting to soothe her.
I believed there had been a violent incident for a single, horrifying moment. My stomach turned over.
Then I noticed the odor.
Blood wasn’t involved. It was paint. The floor, the tablecloths, and the pricey white roses they had very likely spent a fortune on were all covered in thick, sticky red paint.
Uncertain of what I had just entered, I stood motionless in the entryway until I noticed Misty close to the rear.
She was trying so hard not to laugh that she looked like she was about to burst.
She muttered, “Finally,” and took hold of my wrist. “You succeeded. Hurry up.”
Still in a trance, I questioned, “What happened?”
She pulled me to the corner while biting her lip.
She added, “You need to see it yourself,” as she took her phone out of her purse. “I understood everything. Take a seat.”
She tapped play as we crouched away from the chaos, near the back wall.
Around the toasts, the video began. As people raised their glasses and Judy dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, Oliver grinned like the most punchable golden retriever in the world. Then Lizzie got to her feet.
I watched the screen and blinked.
Lizzie. The one that is quiet. The sister who is “fix-it” The one who hadn’t attended any family events for nearly a year.
She appeared to be in control. However, there was a hint of shakiness in her voice that made it seem suspicious.
“Before we toast,” she said, “there’s something everyone needs to know about the groom.”
People moved around in their seats. You could hear the air leaving the room as it became quiet.
The words “Oliver is a liar,” were spoken by Lizzie. “He declared his love for me. He promised to leave Judy.” Because it would “ruin everything,” he advised me to get rid of the baby.
In the video, I could hear the audience gasp. A fork was dropped.
Judy got to her feet onscreen, blinking as if she hadn’t heard her.
She said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Lizzie, however, did not recoil.
Lucy lost her kid “because of this man,” she remarked, pointing to Oliver. He is poison. Everything he touches is destroyed by him.
There was an electric sound in the room. People were turning in their chairs, whispering, and taking out their phones. As Misty attempted to steady her hands, the video gently zoomed in.
The hammer was then dropped by Lizzie.
“Are you curious about my absence? Why didn’t I return your calls? I was pregnant, which is why. with his infant. And up until today, I was unable to face any of you.”
My breath caught.
In the footage, the room burst. I could plainly hear someone say, “What the hell?” above gasps and muttering. Misty zoomed in, causing a tiny shift in the camera.
“You disgusting woman!” yelled Judy.
Ever the calm one, Lizzie just remarked, “At least I finally saw him for what he is.”
Then mayhem.
Oliver tried to seize the microphone as he surged for her, his face contorted in rage. Judy shouted as she rushed in behind him. The chairs scuffed. People began to stand.
With unwavering composure, Lizzie reached beneath the table, took out a silver bucket, and carefully poured a full load of red paint on them both.
Everywhere there was yelling. People were using their phones to record the event. While Judy’s hands thrashed in front of her, crimson paint flowing down her arms like a scene from a horrible horror film, Oliver yelled something incomprehensible.
The microphone was placed on the table by Lizzie.
Calmly, “Enjoy your wedding,” she added.
And she left immediately.
The video came to an end.
Unable to speak, I gazed at Misty’s phone.
I said, “Wait,” at last. “He was with Lizzie, too?”
Misty put her phone back in her clutch and nodded.
She rolled her eyes and said, “And he tried to sleep with me, too,” “It was back in March. told me a heartbreaking tale about how alone he felt and how Judy didn’t get him. I advised him to find another person to weep with.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“You okay?” Gently, Misty inquired.
I gave it a few blinks.
Saying, “I think so,” “I mean, no. But sort of, too? I’m not sure.”
Both of us turned back to the front, where Judy and Oliver were still attempting to remove the red paint from their clothing. Most of the visitors had left, with some disguising smiles and others shaking their heads. There was no sign of the wedding cake.
Seeing a building fall apart in slow motion while realizing that nobody inside was worth saving was like that.
After a while, I went outside to enjoy the refreshing night air. I was followed by Misty.
Silently, we stood close to the parking lot’s edge.
She said, “You didn’t deserve any of this,” after a minute had passed.
I gave her a quick look.
“I know,” was my response. “But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe again.”
Naturally, the wedding was called off. The centerpieces were picked up by the florist. My parents attempted to seem good, but it was like trying to use a garden hose to save a burning house.
For weeks, Judy didn’t communicate with any of us.
Oliver virtually vanished from the town’s gossip mill. He relocated out of state, according to some. Others claimed that when he attempted to make amends with Lizzie, she reportedly urged him to stop using her number.
What about me? I began going to therapy. Pumpkin, the cat I adopted, like sleeping on my stomach, exactly where Emma used to kick. During lunch breaks, I resumed walking. I didn’t date immediately. First, I had to discover who I was. However, I grinned more.
Because I knew something had changed, despite the fact that it was messy, embarrassing, and extremely painful.
I had freedom.
Let the lies go. guilt-free. Additionally, I am free of the version of myself that was constantly trying to prove myself to those who didn’t deserve me in the first place.
Karma is said to be slow to manifest and to occasionally never manifest at all.
But seeing Oliver spill paint in front of 200 people and Judy scream in her torn dress that night?
It appeared.
in a pail of silver. And that was really lovely, I must say.
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