She called me the miracle in her life, I called her my little treasure. Sounds corny, I know, but I really believed I was the luckiest bastard on earth. I had the loving and supportive wife, a nurturing mother to our two precious girls, a thriving business and the future looked rosy. I was a contented man.
But overnight everything changed. My wife withdrew from me, ignored our children, and made it clear she was no longer interested in playing the role of wife and mother.
We had two children under five, they needed her. I needed her.
When her dressing began to change and she disappeared for hours, I suspected I was not enough for her.
Thinking she was having an affair, I placed my wife of five years under surveillance.
What my surveillance revealed shook my world, broke my heart and exposed a web of lies and deceit.
My Wife’s lil Secret
Excerpt from My Wife’s Li’l Secret:
Since my wife was out partying again, bedtime routine for our girls was left to me. Again. I tucked Ally and Becky into bed and began to read a story to them. “Once upon a time…”
“Dadda?” Ally said placing her hand on the storybook and stopping me from continuing.
I paused and looked at my daughter. “Yes, Alleycat?”
“Dadda, what’s a hooka?”
“Whaaaat?” I peered at my daughter wondering if I had heard correctly.
“The teacher at preschool, she said, ‘Here comes the hooka,’ when she saw Mummy.”
Slowly, I lowered the book and stared at my daughter. “It’s …it’s …”
How do I explain what a hooker is to a four-year-old? I shouldn’t even be in a position where I had to.
“The lady shouldn’t have said that, Ally,” I muttered.
“But, Dadda …”
Two-year-old Becky spun around and clamped her hand over Ally’s mouth. “Shhh! Let Daddy read the story, Ally!”
Becky hated anyone interrupting a story, so to prevent her from getting mad with us, both Ally and I fell silent. I continued reading even though I was terribly distracted by Ally’s words.
“Talk about it tomorrow, Ally,” I muttered when the opportunity arose.
After the kids fell asleep, I sat in my lounge in the dark and pondered Ally’s teacher’s comment.
Liefie had great legs, a great figure and I had no problem with her wearing whatever she liked, but people were talking and clearly her dressing needed to be …addressed.
Of course I expected Liefie to become angry when I confronted her about it, accuse me of controlling her and after the number of arguments we had had, I was reluctant to talk to her about it.
But when I saw her the following evening, all dolled up and ready to party without her family again, hooker was the word, alright.
Her red skirt was the size of a large belt, her white top strained across her breasts and ended above her belly button, her fake tan looked like she’d dipped herself in food coloring and that garish, face paint with that dominating electric-blue eye shadow…reminded me of Braveheart.
She didn’t look pretty; she looked like an aging prostitute. Harsh words, I know, but they weren’t out of malice, they were simply an observation. (People were talking, remember?)
Tarty make-up aside, to my absolute surprise, she sported two piercings above her left eyebrows. My jaw fell.
When did that happen, I wondered? How could that happen? Why hadn’t she told me about it?
Of course it was her body and she was free to do what she liked to it, but facial piercings weren’t something I liked. She knew that.
She could have at least mentioned it to me before she pieced her face. We were husband and wife; it was reasonable to expect her to talk to me about something like that before she did it.
“What’s with the piercing?” I asked, both mesmerized and irritated by them.
She shrugged, flashed me a deal-with-it look and turned away.
With a weary sigh, I walked around to face her. “We need to talk.”
A guarded look flashed in her eyes before they hardened.
“Liefie, you need to dress more like a mother,” I said in a quiet voice. “You have two children and …”
“What?! You want to tell me how to dress now? You want to CONTROL ME?”
Just as I had expected.
“Hey, keep you voice down, will you? I’m talking to you, that’s all.”
“There is nothing wrong with my dressing, okay?! Nothing!”
“Yes, there is, Liefie. Your skirts are too short, your tops are way too tight and the people at Ally’s school are talking about it. You need to …”
“Ally’s school?” Her heavily-lined eyes slanted.
Her painted, pillar-box-red mouth twisted into a sneer. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I swear!”
She cocked her head and looked at me. “Who told you that?”
“Ally told me. She said one of the mothers or teachers, I can’t remember, after seeing you, used the word hooker.”
Her body stiffened. “Ally said ….THAT?!?”
“That bitch! Where is she?!” She turned and strode off in search of Ally. Even though she was in heels, she almost ran.
“Liefie stop!” I cried running after her, shocked she would call her little daughter a bitch. “Leave her alone!”
She found Ally playing with Becky in the TV room. “Did you call me a hooker?” she demanded, putting her flaming face in Ally’s.
“Liefie stop this shit!” I warned.
Ally’s eyes flitted between Liefie’s and mine, a terrified look on her face.
“Lief…ie! ” I hissed. “Stop this …”
Liefie suddenly backhanded Ally across the face, sending her crashing into a doll’s house.
Ally lay on the floor so stunned, she didn’t even cry. The only thing that showed her distress was puddle appearing around her waist.
For a moment, I too was stunned. Liefie had never ever hit our kids before.
Then fury overtook me – I grabbed my wife by the hair and slammed her against the wall.
Putting my face in hers, I snarled, “You ever touch my child like that and I will fuck the shit out of you, understand? UNDERSTAND?”
Her attempt to look defiant failed and I saw fear flicker in her eyes.
I had never hit Liefie before, never even called her names, so this wasn’t something she was used to.
“Don’t ever lay a finger on any of my daughters. Understand?” I pushed my face further into hers, resisting the urge to head-butt her.
“Daddy, stop! Daddy!” Ally cried, while Becky started to whimper. I looked over at my two children clinging to each other, terror on their little faces.
What am I doing?!
Quickly, I released Liefie and took a giant step back.
I walked over to Ally and Becky, scooped up both of them and hugged them to me. “It’s okay, it’s okay!”
They looked at their mother who stood holding her head with both hands, but did not try to go to her.
After a few moments, Liefie ran out of the room, shouting, “Your father is an abusive man! He just abused me in front of our children. That’s the kind of man I married!”
I looked at Ally. “Sorry, hon.”
“Why did you tell her, Daddy?” Ally whispered, holding her tear-stained cheek.
“I’m sorry, Al, I was trying to get her to do the right thing. I’m sorry.”
“You knew she’d hit me, Daddy. You shouldn’t have told her.”
I peered at Ally. “What are you talking about? She doesn’t hit you, Ally. Usually. Right?”
“I need to change my pants,” Ally muttered, ignoring my questions.
My head jerked to look at little Becky.
Becky’s head bobbed, her eyes opening wide.
You can’t be serious?!
My eyes shifted back to Ally. “This is the first time she hit you, right? Or does she hit you? Tell me, Ally.” I shook her. “Tell me!”
Becky’s head continued to bob.
“All the time, Daddy,” Ally finally muttered. “Yesterday she hit me because I took too long to get Uncle Viggo’s beer. From the fridge.”
“WHAAAT?” She had my four-year-old daughter fetching alcohol for her brother?
“Mummy hit Ally here,” Becky said, slapping the top of her head.
I was mortified at what I was hearing.
If Liefie could hit my daughter that way in front of me, backhand her, what would she be doing behind my back? Aghast, I looked at my firstborn who I idolized. “Ally, honey, why didn’t you tell me this?”
“You weren’t here, Dadda. And Mummy said if I carry tales she’ll make me sorry.” Fat tears coursed down little Ally cheeks.
I drew my girls closer, feeling absolutely gutted to know they were being silently abused by their own mother. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Daddy will make it stop. I’m so sorry. This is not going to happen again. I promise.”
End of Excerpt
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I have been really ill recently. I’ve had some severe, blinding headaches and have been subjected to a series of tests. Medical tests, that is
If I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably nothing serious. My violent headaches could be the results of the concussion I sustained during a recent fight.
During Exercise Time, two offenders, a serial murderer and an armed robber, for no reason jumped me and tried to kick the crap out of me.
Of course, I work out regularly and if you remember, I am incredibly fit, so I let loose on them.
Still, in spite of that, I received a concussion, a sprained ankle and some severe bruising on my face and chest.
In spite of them looking worse than I do, I’m feeling really low right now, and I’m thinking of Warren. It would be really great if I could see him.
I know you don’t have to, but I would appreciate if you could be kind enough to bring him to see me.
I miss him so much.
I miss you too. Two-and-half years later, and I still miss you both. In spite of everything.
Guess I’m more forgiving than I thought.
Anyway, I’m sorry for my outbursts in my previous letters.
It’s just prison; it can make a man mad. For a while, I thought I was losing my mind, but I’m okay, just a little blue.
Something terrible has happened. I have been diagnosed with cancer. Bowel cancer.
To say I was surprised at the diagnosis is an understatement.
After all, I took good care of myself and always watched my diet. You remember all the healthy foods and antioxidants I consumed, don’t you?
You used to prepare them just the way I liked them.
I smile when I think about those wonderful times. Those marvelous weekends when we would spend family time together.
I remember how you hated Mondays.
Do you still hate Mondays, Arena?
I think about other things too when I think about us, but they’re X-rated if you know what I mean. (Big wink. Really big.)
Anyway, I’m feeling really grim right now, pretty low actually.
I don’t fear the cancer. I don’t fear death.
I just want it to end quickly, that’s all.
But I constantly think about my son. I would really, really, really like to see him.
Is it possible for you to bring Warren to see me, please?
I would really appreciate it if you did.
13 March 2013
My cancer treatment is torturous. I am weak and at times I feel like I have died and come back to life.
I have seen the Grim Reaper and he’s soulless, I can tell you that much.
In fact, he never leaves, he just hovers around me like a bat out of hell, waiting for capitulation.
I’m fighting him, refusing to surrender, because I want to see my son before I die. I want to make peace with Warren before I leave this earth.
I think I will go with a smile on my face if I see my son, if I know that my last words to him were “I love you son and I’m sorry for all I have done.”
If I don’t see my son, I feel my spirit won’t ever be at ease.
I want to make peace with you too.
There’s nothing like dying to bring on clarity. The kind of lucidness you’ve never experienced before.
Sure, I did wrong, but we all do things because of the way we’re wired. Like everyone else, I can’t help the way I am. (As Lady Gaga puts it; I was born this way.)
If we could, we would change for the better. (How do you know Warren isn’t wired like me?
Would you stand by him if he’s inherited my demons?)
You’re the type of person who likes to do the right thing so that you can sleep well at night.
Are you, Arena? Are you sleeping well knowing that:
a) I’m in prison for a crime I did not commit and you put me here.
b) I am dying of cancer. Dying, Arena, dying!
c) You are able to grant me one last wish, yet you chose not to for whatever reason(s), even though it is a deathbed wish? (Who does that?)
d) You have turned into a hardened caricature of your former, loving self, hardened heart, empty soul. Maybe even as soulless as the Grim Reaper.
e) You lie to our son that his father does not want him or that his father is not interested in him, or whatever – you just lie to your son about me?
The doctors say I have about three months to live. I really think I will go sooner.
I shall leave you on that note.
Sleep tight and don’t let the conscience bite.
Excuse me for having someone else write this very personal letter.
I am way too weak to write. It’s the treatment – worse than the disease, I tell you. It makes me shake, my whole body, not just my hands, so writing is difficult.
But I’m holding on for Warren. Taking comfort in the fact that I will soon see his face.
My faith in you doing the right thing and allowing me to see him, persists.
Please bring my son to visit me before I die.
Respectfully and with all my love
PS: You do not have a hardened heart. You do not have an empty soul. You are one of the most balanced individuals I have ever come across – strong and resilient, yet, kind, compassionate and caring.
When I look at the nurses around me, I think to myself: Arena should have been a nurse. She’d be great at it.
End of Tom’s letters.
So, I’m dying to know, what would you like to see happen to Tom?
Go on now, unleash yourselves and let me have your fantasies about revenge for Tom. The more twisted, the better. After all, he did get away with killing poor baby Sasha.
Though I must hasten to add, my book is already written. I’m simply editing right now. And yes, it has turned out to be a sequel after all.
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