On Our Road Trip, I Realized My Husband Couldn't Drive

We were on the highway during Memorial Day weekend when my husband, William, suddenly asked me, "What's this button for?" I froze. It was the cruise control button on the right side of the steering wheel. He'd been driving this car for three years. I pretended to take a sip of water, but my hand shook so badly I spilled it all over myself. "Honey, what's wrong?" He reached over to wipe it off me. I stared at the back of his hand, my heart pounding like thunder. I looked up at the rearview mirror. Our daughter was asleep in the back seat. Taking a deep breath, I smiled and asked him, "Will, the first time you came to my family's house, what kind of drink did my dad pour you?" He answered without hesitation, "Top-shelf whiskey. Your dad said a son-in-law should have the best." I couldn't smile anymore. My dad doesn't drink at all. We don't even own a single wine glass at home. ...... The car raced down the highway. My hands gripped the seatbelt, my knuckles white. "Honey, you look awful. Are you carsick?" William reached over to feel my forehead. I flinched back. His hand hung in the air. He paused, then smiled. "What's wrong? Do I have thorns on my hand?" "No." I turned to look out the window. "Just focus on driving." "Highway driving isn't tiring. Let's talk." He steered with one hand and reached for mine with the other. I pulled away. His smile faded for a second, then quickly returned to normal. "Honey, are you mad at me? Is it because I didn't help you fall asleep last night?" William never helps me fall asleep. We always sleep separately. "No." I looked at him and said flatly, "I'm just tired." "Then get some rest. I'll wake you when we're there." He patted his own shoulder. "Come on, lean here." I didn't move. He glanced at me and said nothing more. The car went quiet, with only our daughter's even breathing in the back seat. I closed my eyes, my mind full of the details from a moment ago. The cruise control button. He'd been driving this car for three years. He could find it with his eyes closed. My dad doesn't drink. Not even my best friend knew that. Only William knew. Because the first time he came over, my dad clinked glasses with him using cola instead of liquor. He'd laughed and said, "Dad, let's toast with cola instead of the hard stuff. When the bond runs deep, bottoms up." Only three people knew about that. Me, my dad, and William. How could this person possibly say top-shelf whiskey? Unless... he wasn't William at all. My phone buzzed. I looked down. It was a text from my husband: Honey, are you there yet? Be safe on the road. My blood ran cold. Who sent this text? The man beside me was driving. He couldn't have sent a text. So who sent it? I stole a glance at William, driving beside me. He was staring straight ahead, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. I opened that profile picture. It was a photo of William, taken on our wedding day. I clicked into his social media feed. The latest post, from this morning, read: Whole family on a trip for Memorial Day weekend. My wife insisted I drive. I said, "Can't you drive?" She said, "A man should be the one driving." Fine, what can I do, I spoil her. The attached image was a photo of a hand gripping the steering wheel. But the hand on that steering wheel had a mole on it. I jerked my head up and looked at the hand of the man beside me on the wheel. It was perfectly clean.

I was shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone. "Honey, what's wrong?" He turned to look at me. I quickly shut off my phone screen. "N-nothing." "You really look awful. Did you get heatstroke? I'll turn on the AC." He reached out to adjust it. But he went for the temperature knob first, and William always adjusted the fan speed first. Because he used to say the temperature didn't matter—it only felt cool when the fan was on high. These little details, three years of marriage, over a thousand days and nights. I remembered all of them. And he had every one of them wrong. He suddenly reached over and took my phone. "I've noticed you keep staring at your phone. Who's been messaging you?" My heart skipped a beat. The screen was lit up, and the message was still there. "Honey, are you there yet?" He stared at the screen, silent for five seconds, and then smiled. "Oh, I sent that this morning. You're just now seeing it?" He opened the message and scrolled up. Above it was what I'd sent last night: "Honey, what time are we leaving tomorrow?" He'd replied, "Eight o'clock. Don't stay up late, go to bed early." Everything looked normal. But I knew he hadn't sent it. Because last night, he was with me. From the time we finished dinner until we went to bed, he was in the living room watching TV. He was right there on the sofa when I sent that message. He never even touched his phone, let alone answered me. "See? I replied to you this morning." He handed the phone back, his tone easy. I took it, my hands shaking. "Honey, are you hungry? Want to stop at the rest stop up ahead and grab something to eat?" "Okay." He smiled and kept driving. I looked at his profile. This face was exactly like William's. No—it was ninety-nine percent like William's. The other one percent was in my heart. William's jawline was a little harder; this man's was softer. His eyebrows were thicker; this man's were a shade lighter. When he smiled, the left corner of his mouth rose a little higher than the right. Only I could tell these subtle differences apart. Because William and I had shared a bed for three years. His was the first face I saw every morning when I woke up. The way he frowned, the way he yawned, the way he nicked his chin shaving. Every detail was carved into my bones. So I knew—the man beside me was not him.

We reached the highway rest stop. He parked and unbuckled his seatbelt. "I'll go buy something. What do you want to eat?" "Anything's fine." "Then let me go take a look." He got out, took a couple of steps, then turned back. "Oh, right, hand me your phone. Mine's dead. I'll use yours to pay." I hesitated for a moment, then handed him my phone. He took it, smiled, and walked off. Watching his back, my mind raced. Why did he want my phone? Was he afraid I'd call the police? Or afraid I'd contact someone? I sat in the car, my daughter still asleep in the back seat. I took a deep breath and started to remember. When did things start to feel wrong? Three days ago. That day he came home from work with a bouquet of flowers. Lilies—the flower I hate most. William knew I hated lilies most, because the scent was too strong and gave me a headache. He only ever bought roses. "Why did you buy lilies?" I asked, looking at him. "The florist said lilies were pretty, so I bought them." He smiled, his voice low. "If you don't like them, I'll throw them out." I didn't think much of it at the time. Looking back now, a man who hadn't bought the wrong flowers in three years had suddenly gotten it wrong. And last week, he gave our daughter a bath. He set the water too hot, and she cried from how it scalded her, but he said it like it was nothing. "It's fine, it's fine, it'll cool down in a second." William always tested the water first, and only after testing it would he put our daughter in. That day I looked at him and asked, "Why didn't you test the water?" He frowned. "I did test it. It's not hot." Looking back now, he was lying. Someone knocked twice on the car window. I looked up and saw him standing outside, holding two cups of milk tea, smiling gently. "Honey, I got you your favorite—taro boba." I looked at that cup of milk tea. I don't drink milk tea. I only drink coffee. William had known that from the very first day he met me. He smiled and held out the milk tea. I didn't take it. "Honey?" I looked at him and slowly said, "Who are you?"

His hand froze in midair, and the smile on his face froze with it. "What did you say?" "I said, who are you?" He stared at me for three seconds without a word, then gave a little smile. "Isabel, are you dreaming? I'm your husband." "You're not." "How am I not?" "I don't drink milk tea, and Will adjusts the fan speed before the temperature—you set the temperature first just now. Will has a mole in the web of his hand, and you don't." With every word I said, his smile faded a little more. "And another thing—you won't eat eggs? Will loves fried eggs more than anything—he can eat three at a time. When you picked the eggs out last time, I should have noticed." His smile vanished completely. Silence. The car was so quiet I could hear Mandy turning over in her sleep. "Isabel Henson." He finally spoke, his voice changed. "You've finally figured it out. I meant for you to figure it out." "The car, the text messages—all of it!" I looked at him and said, slow and deliberate, "Who exactly are you?" He looked at me and slowly smiled. That smile was nothing like Will's. Will's smile was warm. This man's smile was cold and sinister. "Who I am doesn't matter," he said in a low voice. "What matters is that from today on, you're coming with me." "On what grounds?" He glanced at my daughter in the back seat. "On her account." My blood ran cold all over. "If you lay a finger on Mandy, I'll kill you." "Don't get worked up." He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Why would I ever hurt Mandy? She's my daughter too." My mind went off with a bang. "What did you say?" "I said, Mandy is my daughter." He looked at me and smiled, then said slowly, "Your husband can't have children." I was shaking all over. "You're lying!" "Am I lying?" He took out his phone and pulled up a photo. "Take a look at this." The photo was a medical report. It read: William Gilbert, male, azoospermia. The date was seven years ago. Seven years ago, right when we first met. "He knew all along," he said, putting the phone away. "That's why he never dared to marry you. You pressured him, and that's the only reason he finally did. Three years of marriage, and you never got pregnant—whose problem did you think it was?" I was shaking all over. "Then how did Mandy come to be?" "I helped you," he said, smiling at me. "Your husband asked me to help." "Asked you?" "That's right. He came to me, said he couldn't do it, and asked me to stand in for him. At first I didn't want to, but then..." "But then what?" "But then I met you." "You were so beautiful. The first time I saw you, I wanted to—" "Shut up!" "Isabel, don't get worked up," he said, smiling. "Everything I'm telling you is true. Mandy is my daughter—your husband begged me to give her to him." "Impossible, he wouldn't—" "He wouldn't? Then go ask him." He laughed. "Oh, that's right—you can't ask him. Because he's somewhere you'll never find him." "What did you do to him?" "Take a guess."