My Future Ex-Husband

Moving day was approaching at pace and the to-do list was as long as the Amazon River. Unlabelled, half-filled boxes sat in every room I walked through. Rolls of unused tape were still in their packs and a marker pen lay on the carpet with the lid off.

Sighing softly I picked it up before the ink could leak on the carpet and slipped the cap on with a satisfying click.

Corey had been tackling the study and it was typical of him to leave things so chaotic. The pen could have left a mark that we would have had to pay our future-ex-landlord, why didn’t he think of that? We were going to need every penny to pay our new mortgage and to decorate the “fixer upper” we had sweated blood to purchase.

I turned to place the pen on the desk and promptly tripped over the half-filled box of books that Corey had been working on. My arms windmilled, I stumbled a few steps, then landed heavily against the flimsy flat-pack desk which of course collapsed under the force.

Down I went, books tumbling on top of me, catching me in the arms and face with sharp corners. The noise was tremendous, like it was hailing footballs. As I landed on the carpet I noticed with irony that I was still gripping the pen tightly. At least the pen was safe.

I was bruised in body and battered in pride, and I groaned as I pushed aside books, magazines and a potted plant that had spilled dirt over the cream carpet. So much for my attempt to keep that clean. At least dirt was easier to wash out than ink.

Among the casualties lay a couple of framed photographs.

I brushed glass shards from my favourite; a still from my wedding day as I left the church, arm in arm with my new husband. We looked so young and carefree; I was batting away some of the bio-degradable confetti my sister had insisted on throwing at us and Corey was gazing at me with such love in his eyes that my heart felt fit to burst.

Well, at least the photograph itself was unharmed even if the frame was destined for the trash.

As I plucked the photograph from the wreckage I realised that it was doubled up. There was a second photograph wedged into the frame with it. At first I wondered if it was a duplicate, stored there for ease in case the first one faded over the years in sunlight. But when I slipped it out I realised that it was a completely different photograph.

My breath caught in my throat as I realised it was a similar picture to the first; the same church, though instead of blazing summer sun, the dimmer light and bare trees suggested late autumn or even winter. Corey was still wearing a suit, though this one was navy instead of grey. His smile was bright but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His hair had thinned out a little too.

The biggest difference was the bride clinging to his arm. It wasn’t me.

I sat back in shock and let the photograph drop to the carpet. The woman was red-headed, full-bodied, a real stunner. Her smile was bright and happy as it should be on her wedding day. Btu I couldn’t help feeling a rising anger at her. An intense burning hatred. Who was she? What was she doing with my husband?

What was this? And what kind of sick joke was it for Corey to hide this behind our actual wedding photo?

Had he secretly had a second marriage? Or was this a first marriage I had no knowledge of?

No…he looked older. Older than when we married, certainly but older even than he looked now. I picked up the picture and studied it more carefully. It was hard to tell but his face looked more drawn. Were those flecks of grey peppering his beard?

Instinctively I turned the photograph to check the back: Corey and Marina, Saturday November 14^th 2026.

Twenty-twenty-six?

Twenty-six?

What on earth was this? The year was most definitely 2021. And I was most definitely married to Corey, not someone called Marina. Who had put it there? And who had made it? Because it was obviously a mock-up, some kind of elaborate photo manipulation.

Corey wouldn’t do this, I was sure. My sister had been the one to give us this framed photograph as a first year anniversary present, so perhaps she had done it? Added this hideous fake thing…why? As a joke? As some kind of revenge? For what?

Too many questions and no answers.

I folded the picture carefully and slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans. My plan was simple; I’d confront them. Both my sister and Corey. I’d start off light, see if I could get them to confess, then I’d bring out the evidence if they still played dumb.

Someone had the answers I needed, it was just a matter of waiting for the right moment to approach them.

Unfortunately, I waited too long. Of all the stupid things, Corey woke up in a helpful mood the next day and seeing the beautifully bright sunshine loaded the washing machine.

Including my jeans, that had been laying on the bedroom floor.

The picture was burned into my brain but the evidence was gone. How could I confront my husband and sister now? They’d dismiss anything I said, say it was the stress of the move that was playing tricks with my mind.

Even whispering it to myself, it sounded too fantastical.

That I had found a wedding photo from five years in the future, of my husband and another woman. How did that happen? What did any of it mean? It probably meant that I was working too hard and that the move really was wearing me down.

Or maybe there had been no photograph at all.

Whatever the conclusion I felt as if I couldn’t approach either of them. After all, if I couldn’t convince myself then how was I ever going to convince anyone else and demand answers from them?

No, I would just put it down to a day dream. A trick of the eyes. The stress on my mind.

And pretend I had never found that stupid photograph at all.

For nearly a year it worked like a charm.

With the evidence soaked away by the washing machine I had nothing to prod my memory or burn a metaphorical hole in my pocket and the memory became vaguer and vaguer with each passing day, week, month and eventually year.

Corey and I were very happy. We were seven years married and although we hadn’t yet had any luck with children, we still had our lives ahead of us.

The new home was amazing and we spent every spare hour of the weekends and evenings after work chipping away with repairs and decorating. It had been a fantastic price for a reason; it needed a lot of work.

That, too, helped me forget about the photograph. Between the new house and my job I was far too busy to think about something that with every passing day seemed more and more like a fantasy.

So I suppose it was strange that it was the first thing that popped into my head that day in the doctor’s office.

I’d felt a lump in my breast and got it checked out. Even my GP had thought it would be a harmless cyst that may not even require surgical intervention.

“I’m very sorry,” the doctor began.

Was he, though? Was he sorry? You couldn’t truly be sorry for every person that walked through those consulting room doors that you had to give this news to. If you did, you’d drive yourself insane. There’s only so much sorrow one person can handle.

“There are some very good treatments in trial phases,” the doctor continued.

He continued to talk about different types of chemotherapy and surgery. And other more exotic drugs that were coming onto the market, or that I may be eligible to participate in a trial for.

I found myself looking out of the window, not really taking it all in. Corey sat beside me, squeezing my hand so tightly I thought the bones would break. But all I took in was the pitiful view of the hospital car park from the consultant’s window.

I wondered if he ever felt depressed, looking out over the sea of cars day after day after day?

"If nothing improves, then a year, perhaps a little more,” the doctor said, when I finally plucked up the courage to ask my prognosis.

And then it all fit and hit me like a slap to the face.

I was not going to survive this.

Corey would grieve for me.

And by 2026 he would have met Marina and they would be married.

Corey looked older in the photograph because he was older. He looked greyer and more world-beaten because he was going to spend the next however many months with me, looking after me as my health declined and pinning his waning hopes on the next surgery, the next chemo, the next wonder drug.

The breath caught in my throat. I hadn’t realised tears were rolling down my cheeks until the doctor plucked a tissue from a box ready on his desk and handed it to me.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said.

He had no idea. My future had been mapped out in a photograph and I was powerless to do anything about it.

When I turned to Corey his eyes were damp too. With his free hand he wiped at them and tried to smile for me.

“It’ll be okay, love,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re a fighter. We’ll get through this. Together.”

I smiled back for him, my future ex-husband. I smiled for the love he had for me. I smiled for the children we would never have. I smiled for the life we would never know together.

And I smiled for Corey and Marina, in 2026 and hoped that their story was going to be a longer, happier one than ours would be.