The Sunday Wife：He Had Three Families, I Was the Nanny

The day Reid forced me to have an abortion, he told me he hated kids. After that, I never brought it up again. Even though I wanted one. Badly. Then, the night before the charity gala, Reid asked me to drop off holiday baskets at the daycare for three kids he sponsored—all from single-parent homes. "You like kids. You go. I trust you." So I went. The teacher looked at me and said, "Mrs. Aldrich, your husband has three kids here. Which one are you picking up today?" I just stood there. "What?" She gave me a weird look and handed me three registration forms. Archer, age five. Cleo, age four. Fox, age two. Three kids. Three moms. Tatum Voss—the woman Reid had grown up with. Neve Ashby—his first love from college. Greer Hutton—his personal assistant. And on the father line, same name, every single time: Reid Aldrich. The teacher saw my face go white and handed me a phone. "Mr. Aldrich left this here last week at the parent event." The screen was still open on an iMessage group chat. [The Sunday Club] Three women. His friends. Everyone except me—his wife. The last message was a photo of me tying a kid's shoe. Tatum wrote: [Look at his actual wife playing nanny. She's pretty good at it.] Neve added: [Free babysitter. Might as well use her.] The whole thread was laughing. Greer asked: [Where's Reid tonight?] Reid answered fast: [Same as always.] [Two nights each.] [Sundays I go home to her so she doesn't get suspicious.] My hands were shaking. I scrolled back. I scrolled back to two years earlier—the day of my abortion. His friend asked: [You're really not letting her keep the baby?] Reid wrote back: [Taken care of.] [She likes kids. She can raise ours. No need for her to have her own.] That same day, still in pain from the surgery, I sent Fox, the youngest, a gift to mark his first month of life. I stared at those words and laughed. So he didn't hate kids. He just hated the idea of me having his. I didn't cry. I didn't yell at him. I took pictures of everything and sent them to my lawyer. [Gather all the evidence and file immediately. I want every penny I'm entitled to.] Then I booked a flight to Nantucket. Reid had three women. Three kids. Three homes. He didn't need a wife anymore. ... For five years, Reid had screened nearly all my contact with the outside world. He said the women of the Aldrich family shouldn't have to deal with outside interference. I thought he was protecting me. Turns out he was isolating me. On the way to the airport, the daycare teacher texted me a bill. [Mrs. Aldrich, should we still charge the three kids' tuition to your account next semester?] I replied: [No. Contact their father from now on.] For three years, I believed Reid's story. I paid tuition for three "single-parent kids." Never once did it cross my mind they were his. God, it was ridiculous. I barely put my phone down when Reid called. "You left divorce papers at home?" I didn't answer that. I just asked: "What does 'two nights each' mean in that group chat?" He paused. "You know?" "Yeah." "Fine. I'll say it straight. Monday through Saturday, I stay with them. Sunday, I come home." "Five years of marriage. I've spent every Sunday with you. Never missed one." Every Monday, he'd grab his suitcase and say he was going on a business trip. Every Sunday night, I'd pack his clothes. He never went to the airport. He kept talking: "They don't get to be my wife, but they gave me children. You get my love. They get the houses and the children." I held my phone tighter. "You think I didn't want a child?" He laughed. "You're Mrs. Aldrich. You've got everything. No need to fight them for more." "I promised them the estate gets split three ways. One more kid, and they get less." "A legitimate heir would change everything. I couldn't let that happen." He thought about everyone. Everyone except me. "I'm not signing." "I'll be home Sunday. We'll talk." He hung up. I opened the video I'd saved from his phone. Five years ago. The day we signed our marriage license at the county clerk's office. Across the street, three women sat by the window of a restaurant. Tatum placed her pregnancy test results on the table. Greer asked: "She's about to be Mrs. Aldrich. What about us?" Reid said: "Have one child each with me, and I'll buy each of you a house and cover your living expenses." Neve looked out the window. "What if she wants kids later?" Across the street, I was standing outside the county clerk's office, holding my papers. He looked at me through the glass. "She's got the marriage certificate. She can't have everything." Everyone at the table raised their glasses in celebration. Reid grabbed the papers, crossed the street, and walked up to me. He fixed my hair. Kissed my forehead. Led me inside. Behind the camera, the women laughed. "Marriage certificate for her. Kids for us." That day, he showed up half an hour late. Said it was traffic. But before he came to me, he'd already handed out his kids and his money to everyone else. All I got was a marriage certificate. After the boarding call, he texted me: [Come back and everything stays the same.] I blocked him. Sent the video to my lawyer. [Keep this one too.] Then I got on the plane. For five years, every Sunday, I waited at home for him. Not anymore.