When Chad invited his friend Nolan to join him for dinner with his French in-laws, he thought it would be a great way to have some company while his wife, Camille, and her parents spoke in French. Little did he know, that dinner would uncover a shocking secret that would change everything.
Camille and I met in college when she was an exchange student from France, studying International Politics. We’ve been together ever since, and she’s as French as they come. Her parents still live in France but visit us twice a year. While I’ve picked up a few French phrases over the years, I’ve never fully grasped the language. So, when Camille and her parents chat in French, I’m usually left feeling a little out of place at the dinner table.
With her parents visiting again, I thought it would be nice to invite my friend Nolan over for dinner. He could keep me company while the French conversation flowed. I figured it would be a casual evening of bouillabaisse and work talk.
Everything seemed fine at first. We were all sitting at the table, enjoying dinner. Nolan and I were deep in conversation about an audit at work, while Camille and her parents happily chatted away in French. Then, out of nowhere, Nolan’s expression changed. He went pale, nudged me, and whispered urgently, “You need to go upstairs and check under your bed. Trust me.”
I laughed it off at first, but the serious look in his eyes made me uneasy. I excused myself from the table, confused and a bit anxious, and headed upstairs.
In my bedroom, I bent down and looked under the bed. There, I found a small black box. My heart was pounding as I opened it, not sure what to expect. Inside were old love letters, trinkets, and a series of photos of Camille with another man. One name came up repeatedly in the letters: Benoit.
I stood there in shock, piecing together what I had stumbled upon. Camille had been hiding an affair.
The next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital bed, groggy and disoriented. Nolan was sitting next to me, looking concerned.
“You passed out in the bedroom,” he said. “What happened?”
Slowly, the events of the evening came flooding back—the black box, the photos, and the letters.
“I found the box,” I said quietly.
Nolan nodded. “I took French in high school,” he explained. “During dinner, I overheard Camille talking to her parents about hiding things under the bed. That’s why I told you to check.”
Camille eventually returned to the hospital, acting concerned about my well-being, but I knew I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine.
The next day, after I was discharged, I confronted Camille. “I know about the box under the bed,” I told her. She looked stunned, but I could see the guilt in her eyes.
She tried to explain, claiming that her parents had arranged for her to meet Benoit because they wanted her to be with someone French. But I wasn’t interested in her excuses. I told her I wanted a divorce.
The divorce process was messy. Camille contested everything—our house, spousal maintenance, even demanding that I pay for her trips to France. But I refused. I didn’t care about the house or any of the material things. I just wanted out of the marriage.
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