"The Past Is Not The Present"
Chapter 3: The Cold Wife
Written by: Frenames
I just finished delivering orders and clocked out of work at exactly 7:47 PM. I put my phone back in my pocket and looked up at the dark sky. The streetlights were just starting to turn on, casting long shadows across the wet road from yesterday’s rain. "Life is hard when you don’t finish school," I muttered to myself as I kicked a crumpled plastic cup that was in my way.
I leaned against my motorcycle – its paint was badly chipped on the gas tank, and the exhaust pipe rattled whenever I drove over potholes. I closed my eyes for a moment. I could still hear the principal’s voice from that terrible day years ago:
"Mr. Walter, based on witness statements and the photos we’ve obtained, we have no choice but to expel you from school. We do not tolerate cheating on exams or inappropriate relationships with faculty members – and it appears you cheated and had a relationship with Professor Raston."
"But Sir! That’s not true! I’ve never cheated in my life – I study every night until my eyes hurt!" I shouted, my voice trembling as I gripped the edge of his desk. "And Professor Raston? I only spoke to her once to ask about an assignment! Those photos must be fake!"
The principal just sighed and shook his head slowly. "I’m sorry, but Ramon Villanueva – the director’s son – claims he took those photos himself. He says he saw you leaving the professor’s office late at night, and he has copies of what he claims are stolen exam papers from your bag. His father has already spoken to the school board. There’s nothing I can do for you here."
Later, a classmate told me Ramon had made everything up because Elizabeth had turned down his invitation to the school dance. "She chose you – a nobody – over me?" Ramon cornered me in the hallway the day before I was expelled. "You’ll pay for this. I’ll make everyone think you’re a liar and a cheat – that you don’t belong here, or with her."
No one believed me – not even the friends I thought were genuine. They just whispered and stared as I packed my things from the dormitory. I carried my box of books and clothes out to the street as if I had done something wrong. Even Professor Raston avoided me after that, too scared to defend me against the director’s son. "Life is so cruel... I have no real parents, and I was expelled from school for something I didn’t do. The world isn’t fair," I muttered now, patting my motorcycle as if it were the only thing that understood me.
I never knew my birth parents – I was adopted by my current parents. Even though I’m not their biological child, they still gave me all the love I needed and raised me well. I’m grateful to them. When I was in elementary school, other children would chase me home, throw small stones at me, and shout: "You have no parents! They left you because you’re bad!" Even some teachers looked at me like I was a problem.
Sometimes I lift my shirt and look at the mark on my back. It stretches from my shoulder to my waist – I don’t know what this design means. When I was little, an old neighbor once said to me, "Maybe that’s not a tattoo, child. It might be a special birthmark." But how could something this beautiful be on someone like me? Every time I see it in the mirror, I wonder if my birth parents put it there so they’d recognize me someday – or if it just means I don’t fit in anywhere.
I started up my motorcycle and rode home to our house in the quiet part of the city. I arrived at last.
When I walked inside, I found her sitting on the sofa staring at her laptop. She was wearing a dark blue blazer over a white blouse – her white hair pulled back tightly, making her look distant. She didn’t even glance up as I came in.
"Hi, honey. I’m sorry I’m late – there was traffic near the port, and one customer made me climb three flights of stairs because the elevator wasn’t working," I said, trying to sound cheerful as I set down the plastic bag of food I’d bought for her. It was her favorite pork sinigang from the place near her office.
She finally looked at me, but her eyes were empty – no warmth, no smile. Nothing like they used to be. "I already ate at work," she said flatly, turning her attention back to her screen. "You should have texted me. I would have told you not to bother."
My chest felt heavy as I set the bag on the table. "I wanted to surprise you. You’ve been working so much lately..."
She sighed softly, clicking her mouse a few times before speaking again. "French, I have an early meeting tomorrow. I need to finish this report tonight. Can you keep your voice down? And maybe take a shower – you smell like oil and food."
I nodded quietly, my hands clenched at my sides. "Of course... sorry. I’ll go shower now."
As I walked toward the bathroom, I heard her muttering to herself – loud enough for me to hear: "Sometimes I wonder... if what they said about you back then was true. Dad keeps asking me if I’m sure I married an honest man. He says cheaters never change..."
I stopped at the door, my heart aching. "You know I never cheated, right? Not on exams, not on you – never!" I said, my voice barely audible. "I work twelve hours a day, take every delivery I can get – I even fix motorcycles on weekends to make extra money. I’m doing everything I can to prove I’m not the person they said I was."
She looked at me then. For a moment, I saw something in her eyes – maybe regret, maybe doubt – but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same cold look she’d given me for months. "It’s not just about that, French. Hard work isn’t enough when people still look at you like you’re dirty – like you’d do anything to get what you want. And how can I defend you when sometimes I wonder if I really know you at all?"
I turned and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. As the shower water ran over my head, I let the warm drops mix with my tears. I remembered when we were in college – how she’d hold my hand tightly whenever people whispered about the lies, how she’d say, "I won’t leave you, French. No matter what people say, I know you’re a good person."
We got married three years ago, in a small church with only a few friends in attendance. Her parents didn’t come – her mother even said to my face that day: "Don’t lie to my daughter. If you lied about what you did back then, you’ll do it again. You two aren’t a match – everyone looks down on you, and she’s going to be the head of our company."
But Elizabeth took my hand in front of everyone and said, "I don’t care what people say. I love you, French – that’s all that matters."
Now, as I stood under the shower, I wondered if she still meant those words. Maybe she’d started to believe what everyone had said about me back then. I’m just an ordinary man – a delivery driver labeled a cheat who never finished school. She’s like the sky, high up and out of reach. The distance between us grows wider every day, and I don’t know how to close it. If she decides to leave me one day, I won’t stop her. After all, how can I ask someone like her to stay with a man the world thinks is a liar?
To Be Continued...
