Too Late to Regret, The Substitute Wife Left

It was embarrassing, sitting alone by the roadside, wrapped in the rescue team’s blanket, waiting for my husband to come pick me up.

My car was totaled after crashing into the guardrail; luckily, I’d gotten away with only a few scratches.

Crowds passed by in front of me, but my husband never showed up.

He’ll be here soon,” I assured them, humiliated.

Finally, Andrew appeared. He walked right up to me and grabbed me by the chin. He lifted my face, inspecting it.

My heart clutched.

THAT was his first reaction?

Checking my face.  

I shouldn’t have been surprised. All Andrew really cared about was my face, after all.

It was because I looked so much like his first love, the color of my eyes, the shape of my features. It was such a strange, almost unbelievable coincidence.

But she had died many years ago, yet I had always lived under her shadow.

Meeting Andrew was pure chance. His gentleness, his manners, the way he cared for me so attentively, I fell for him instantly.

So when he asked me to marry him, I agreed without hesitation. But later, I realized the cruel truth. It wasn’t me he wanted as his wife. It was my face, the face that always reminded him of her.

So before my husband even asked me if I was okay, he had to make sure that my precious face wasn’t harmed.

“I’m sorry about the car,” I whispered.

His eyes locked onto mine. He was devastatingly handsome, with a sharp jaw line and deep, chocolate colored eyes.

But whenever he looked at me, I knew he was looking at his first love through my face.   

And it hurt like hell.

I dropped my gaze and turned my head away. I said nothing, and neither did he. Not to me, anyway. He instructed the firefighters to handle the wreckage and told the medical staff that he was taking me home.

Once we were in the car, Andrew interrogated me.

“What were you doing at Seaside Landing?” He mutters, eyes not leaving the road.  “Didn’t anyone tell you there was a dinner tonight?”

I blink once. “No.”

“Are you planning to attend like this?” he glances at me for a minute, eyeing how much of a ruined mess I am.

I say nothing while his knuckles flex around the wheel.

“You just had to go to the beach today of all days?”

I turn to look out the window.

Because if I don’t, I might fucking scream.

The scab I’ve built around my soul for years rips open just a little more. I sigh. I could almost hear my heart pump wild in my chest. Did he really . . . not remember?

“Did you even consider how this would affect things?” he adds, annoyance now laced in his voice.

My jaw tightens. “It’s not like I planned to get hit by a truck.”

The silence that follows is nuclear. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t react. He simply tightens his grip on the steering wheel though he wants to crush it with one hand.

He was always like that. Never raising his voice, never losing his temper. Always calm, always controlled.

But in that composure, I felt it clearly—he didn’t see me as his wife. To him, I was just a problem to manage, a nuisance in his life to be dealt with.

“It’s my birthday,” I said, my head resting on the window. “I just wanted to see the ocean.”

Andrew fell silent at the mention of my birthday.

He’d forgotten it. Again. I knew it.

Ten years of marriage, and not once had he remembered. Every year, I clung to the hope that he’d remember my birthday, or our anniversary.

But deep in my heart, I knew he never would.

I’d fallen in love with a man who didn’t love me. These were the repercussions.

Andrew was a man of few words. He often spoke in calm, measured tones. In public, he was charming and charismatic.I couldn’t help but love him, even if the feelings weren’t mutual. 

We drove in silence the rest of the way home. As soon as we got home, I went to find Oliver. He was in the living room, sulking on the sofa. He had a knitted tulip in his hand.

“Oliver,” I said, gathering him up in my arms. “I’m so sorry I didn’t pick you up today. I…”

“Where were you?” he cut me off, his expression sharp and discerning. He recoiled from my hug. “You were supposed to pick me up! I waited for over two hours, Mom. All the other kids left. I was all alone. How could you be so irresponsible?”

His tone was scolding and I was taken aback.

“I was coming to get you,” I said. “But I got in a car accident. I sent our driver to pick you up.”                

“You KNOW I hate being picked up by the driver,” Oliver snapped at me, anger in his eyes. “I’ve told you that. MANY times.” Oliver stood up, the knitted tulip clutched in his hand. “You don’t even care about me.”

“Oliver,” I gasped, “how can you say such a thing? Of course I care about you.”

I looked to Andrew for help, but he didn’t defend me. Instead, he asked Oliver how he got home.

“Aunty Charlotte picked me up,” Oliver declared, immediately perking up. His entire expression changed when he said her name. “She has a new car, Dad. A sports car. It’s so cool.”

Andrew and Oliver launched into a conversation about Aunty Charlotte and her new car, casting me off to the side and completely ignoring me.  

Charlotte. Again, I thought to myself.

Charlotte was my step-sister, the daughter of my stepmother. Charlotte had disliked me all through our childhood, but after Andrew and I got married, her attitude towards me shifted.

I’d always found the sudden shift in attitude strange, but when Charlotte returned from studying abroad, I immediately understood what had caused the shift.

While overseas, Charlotte had undergone plastic surgery. She had her face altered…

…to look like mine.

That was when I realized her true intention.

Although she jokingly explained that it was only because she wanted us to look more like real sisters. Everyone went along with it, as if nothing seemed out of place. But I knew what hid beneath her smile, her vicious purpose.

She wanted to replace me, still unwilling to accept that she hadn’t been chosen as Andrew’s wife. She knew that my face was the reason.

As such, I’d always been resistant to Charlotte getting too close to Andrew and Oliver. I didn’t trust her. Not one bit.

After our maid took Oliver to bed, I sat down with Andrew to have a serious talk. I implored him to keep Oliver away from Charlotte.

“Why?” he asked dismissively. “You heard Oliver. He adores his Aunty Charlotte.”

I inhaled a sharp breath. I couldn’t give Andrew a solid reason. What was I supposed to say? ‘Because she’s trying to steal you from me? Because she’s trying to take away my family?’

I didn’t have any concrete evidence, and I knew Andrew would just call me crazy.

“Because I’m his mother,” I blurted out. It was a feeble reason, but it was all I had. “I should have some say over who sees him,” I added.

Andrew didn’t reply for a moment, but then he rubbed his temples with his fingers. “Fine, if you don’t want to give me a valid reason, then fine. But I’m tired, Julia. I had a long day at work and I don’t have the energy to argue with you about this trivial stuff right now.”

“Trivial? My feelings aren’t trivial,” I replied. I knew he wasn’t intentionally trying to hurt me, but his words still stung. “I don’t want Oliver around Charlotte. Oliver is my son too. As his mother, I should have the right to decide who takes care of him.”

I was so frustrated, I couldn’t help but vent. Andrew was trying to be patient and restrained; I could see that. But my feelings were valid. Charlotte was trying to weasel her way into MY family.

“And I’m his father,” he snaps. “If I think Charlotte is good for him, I’ll let her be part of his life. You don’t get to control everything.”

“Jesus, Andrew, do you even hear yourself?” My voice trembles. “I’m asking you to back me up—for once. To put your damn wife above the sister I never fucking trusted. Why is that so hard for you?”

He laughs under his breath. Cold. Cruel. “Wife? You’re being a bit too comfortable with that position, Julia.”

My mouth goes dry.

He watches me—daring me to break.

I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my palm. I’m shaking. Not from fear. From fury. From years of swallowing shit and pretending it was love.

“Do you even care about my opinion at all?” I ask, voice low, almost hollow.

His eyes don’t waver. “No. I don’t.”

It guts me.

The silence stretches between us, wide and suffocating yet I still I breathe in like it might be the last time I do it in this house.

“ . . .So what now?” I murmur. “You want me to just shut up and take it? Pretend this marriage isn’t rotting from the inside out?”

He leans against the wall, casual and as cruel as he always is. “Why, what are you gonna do? Divorce me?”