When Chad’s French in-laws come over, he invites his friend, Nolan, along — to keep him company while Camille and her parents converse in French. While they have dinner, Chad discovers that Nolan understands French and reveals a family secret.
My wife, Camille, is as French as they come. We met at college when she was an exchange student studying International Politics, and we’ve been together ever since.
Camille’s parents live in France but visit us twice a year. I’ve learned a few odd words and phrases in French, but the language has yet to stick with me.
Other than mon chéri or various dishes from French cuisine, I don’t know much. Now, my in-laws are around, and it’s only been four days.
So, I decided to invite my friend, Nolan to have dinner and meet Camille’s parents. That way, I would also have someone to talk to.
Now imagine this:
We’re all sitting at the table, enjoying our bouillabaisse. Nolan and I talked about an audit at work, and Camille and her parents were happily chatting in French.
Everything seems fine, right? Wrong.
While mid-conversation about work, Nolan’s face goes as white as a ghost, and he nudges my arm firmly with his elbow.
“Go upstairs and check under your bed. Trust me,” he whispers urgently.
My first instinct was to laugh it off — it made no sense. But one look at his wide eyes told me that this wasn’t a joke.
“Excuse me,” I said to the table. “I’ll be right back.”
I reluctantly shuffled to my bedroom, feeling like I was stepping into some strange French noir film. I picked Camille’s silver silk robe off the floor and bent to look under the bed.
My heart was beating ridiculously fast like I was about to have a heart attack. But there it was — a lone black box.
I opened the box with shaky fingers, going through the contents quickly — I didn’t know if Camille would come looking for me. Then, toward the bottom of the box, was a series of photographs of Camille, wearing next to nothing.
My heart pounded harder and nausea rose through my body.
What have I just stumbled upon? I asked myself.
As I was about to put everything back, the world turned black.
It must have been hours later when I woke up in a hospital ward, surrounded by empty beds. The harsh light glared down on me as my eyes adjusted to the change of venue and the sharp smells of detergent.
“Woah,” I mumbled, my throat raw.
That’s when I noticed that Nolan was sitting next to me, his head propped up by his arm.
“You passed out in your bedroom, mate,” he said. “What happened?”
Then, it all came back to me. Camille’s box under the bed, my insatiable curiosity mixed with an overactive heart rate brought on by a panic attack.
But I did get a glimpse into the box. It turned out to be my own Pandora’s Box. There were incriminating photos of Camille, love letters to a man named Benoit, and little trinkets, all piecing together a tale of betrayal.
It turns out that Camille was hiding an affair.
“You were taking forever,” Nolan said. “So, I followed you, and I found you passed out on the floor. I closed the box and pushed it back under before calling Camille and an ambulance.”
“How did you know?” I asked, thinking about the warning Nolan had given me.
“I did French throughout high school, Chad,” he said. “While talking, I understood that Camille said something about hiding everything under the bed. I’m sorry.”
“Where’s Camille?” I asked.
“At the cafeteria, she said she needed to stretch her legs. So, she went to get coffee.”
I put my head back and thought of the letters that my wife had been receiving.
I got discharged the following day, and Nolan drove me home. Camille fussed over me, making me a healthy juice and ensuromg that I was okay. But of course I wasn’t. Nothing was okay.
That afternoon, I had to set the record straight. I couldn’t look at Camille and feel what I had felt before.
“I can’t continue in this marriage,” I said when Camille brought me a juice.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I know about the black box under the bed.”
Camille turned pale.
“I can explain,” she said, jumping up.
“I saw more than enough, Cami. I don’t think your version of an explanation would change that.”
“Just listen,” she said. “My parents set up the meeting with Benoit. They wanted me to be with someone French — to have completely French children.”
I looked at her, wondering how she expected me to sit there and listen to more.
“So, after they arranged it,” she continued. “I met him. And we hit it off, and our friendship grew.”
“I want a divorce. Immediately,” I said, not wanting to listen to anything else.
Camille made a fuss, hurling accusations of me snooping and invading her privacy. She threatened not to sign the divorce papers when they came, but I told her that there was just no love left in our marriage after what she had done.
“Give me another chance,” she pleaded.
But I didn’t want any of it.
The divorce process lasted a few months, and Camille contested everything — from the house to spousal maintenance — and she even wanted me to pay for her tickets to France every year. I refused everything except the house. I didn’t want to be there anymore anyway. I’m living in a bachelor pad closer to my office now.
I’m heartbroken, sure. But at least now, I’m not living a lie. And that’s liberating.
I’m also grateful to Nolan for telling me the truth and staying by my side through the divorce.
Now, I wonder if Camille will end up with Benoit or not — I know her parents will love it if she does.
Neighbor Wouldn’t Turn Off His Bright Floodlights at Night, I Deftly Managed the Situation and Maintained Harmony
When my neighbor wouldn’t turn off his bright floodlights at night, my husband and I needed a clever solution to keep the peace.
When the Thompsons moved in next door, they seemed friendly. My wife, Gia, and Susan, the neighbor, quickly bonded while chatting over unpacked boxes. We thought we finally had some neighbors our age to socialize with. Mark, the husband, was often away for work, while Susan stayed home and had a long list of phobias, including fear of the dark, thunderstorms, snakes, clowns, and spiders.
As time passed, Susan’s fear of the dark created an issue that affected Gia and me. Their floodlights, installed soon after they moved in, were excessively bright, like those outside prisons. Gia joked that they could probably be seen from space.
Despite our attempts to address the issue, Susan insisted she needed the lights on for safety when Mark was away. We tried thick curtains and rearranging our bedroom, but nothing helped. After a week of sleepless nights, I approached Susan, asking her to turn off the floodlights after midnight, as they shined directly into our bedroom. She explained her need for safety and refused my suggestion to install a timer.
After several attempts to reason with her and Mark, who felt similarly protective of Susan, we continued to lose sleep. Frustrated, I considered drastic measures, like unscrewing the bulbs or using a pellet gun, but Gia reminded me to stay calm. Instead, she suggested a harmless plan while she and Susan went out for nails.
The next day, I climbed a ladder and slightly unscrewed each bulb to disrupt the connection. That night, when Susan turned on the lights, they flickered and went out. Gia and I finally enjoyed peaceful sleep. Surprisingly, days turned into weeks, and the lights stayed off.
However, one day, I saw Mark fixing the bulbs again. The floodlights blazed back to life that night, and I knew I had to repeat my trick. This cycle continued for months—every time Mark tightened the bulbs, I loosened them.
Then one Saturday, as I trimmed the hedges, Mark approached me. He mentioned his floodlights kept going out, and I managed to keep a straight face while agreeing it might be due to vibrations from the street. I suggested he could leave them off, and he seemed to consider it. After that conversation, Gia and I enjoyed our peaceful, dark evenings once again.
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