Face-Slapping11 min read
The Luggage Photo, the Small Account, and My Birthday Curtain
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I was tying a tiny bow on a white shirt when Matteo kissed me in the hall and told me he had to go to Shanghai for three months.
"Take this," I said, handing him the suitcase I had bought for him a fortnight earlier. "Don't throw it around."
He hugged our daughter, Elsie Robertson, who had wrapped her arms around his leg and said, "Daddy, don't go long."
"Just three months," Matteo Chavez said. "I'll phone every night."
"Send me a photo from the airport," I told him. "I like to see you arrive safely."
He smiled and squeezed my hand. "Okay."
Six hours later he sent one photo.
"Arrived," the message said.
The picture was of his new black leather suitcase in a busy terminal. I saved it and admired the silver buckles, the two round buttons that shone like small moons and reflected two silhouettes.
Two reflections.
I zoomed until the pixels blurred. One silhouette—his—was tall and familiar: left hand taking the photo, right hand in his pocket. The other was a slender figure, an arm tucked into his, close enough that the buckle's reflection showed them as a pair.
I set the phone down and called his number.
The first time: "Number not available." The second: "Number not available." The third time he picked up.
"Hey," he said, voice flat.
"Did you get to the hotel?" I asked, steady.
"Yes," he said. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."
"You're not answering my calls," I said. "Who picked you up at the airport? There was supposed to be someone from the office."
He laughed. "It was okay. I took a taxi. They were busy."
In the background I heard voices, the murmur of other passengers.
"Okay," I said. "Rest. Remember to wash the underwear you take with you."
He chuckled. "Should I bring you something? YSL, right?"
"Right," I said. "Take care."
After I hung up I texted Jared Ortega, Matteo's assistant. Jared was a young man, always a bit awkward but truthful.
"Did someone pick Matteo up?" I wrote.
"Yes. They arranged it," Jared answered instantly.
"Was it a man or a woman?"
"A man. Of course a man. He's married, he wouldn't—"
That was meant as a joke. It settled in my stomach like a small stone.
Jared told me Matteo had refused the company pickup and took a taxi. "He said he didn't want to trouble anyone," Jared wrote.
I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I let my imagination walk into alleys and come back with sharp stones.
When our daughter wanted a bedtime song I made up the tune and hummed. "Plant the Sun," I called it because Elsie liked the words. She cuddled my neck and said, "Mama, will Daddy be home for my show at kindergarten?"
"He'll try," I said. But my voice had gone thin with worry.
In the days that followed Matteo and I acted like we always did. Video calls at night. Him making faces to make Elsie laugh. Him telling small jokes that had been ours for years. But there was a shadow cutting across everything.
Then a small, ordinary message arrived from a tiny account I'd never seen.
A photo: a bed, two bodies. Matteo's face turned toward the camera, smiling. A woman's head, hair brown, leaned against his shoulder. The woman was turned away, but the photo's angle, the phone reflection, the crumpled sheets—everything told me it was not an empty hotel bed.
"Who is this?" I typed, and the little account replied, "Is that your husband?"
"Yes," I wrote. "Who are you?"
"Guess."
The account said she wanted money. I closed the bathroom door and sobbed until the water was cold.
I told myself not to. I told myself I did not need the drama. I had been a calm person my whole life. I had believed Matteo when he told me he would give me a good life. That he would be faithful. We had built a home together. I had written stories at night, ironed his shirts, fed our daughter the way his mother had fed him. I had trusted him.
But the suitcase photo burned in my head.
Jared told me the company had sent someone to pick Matteo. Matteo had refused. I had a hotel charge on my phone. I could fly to Shanghai and find him—my hands wanted to. But I am not one for hasty acts. I build a plan and I test the bridges.
An email from a kindergarten teacher led me to another name: Estefania Kobayashi. "Has she come back yet?" I asked. The principal said Estefania had taken leave. Three months.
Three months—Matteo's training length.
I messaged Estefania's card in the parent's group. She added me slowly.
"Hi, Esme," she wrote finally. "Sorry, I was busy."
"Will you be back soon?" I asked.
"Maybe not," she said. "Family things."
Her circle was half-displayed. A mix of selfies, cakes, coffee. For months her posts were sparse to me: she must have hidden things. I could feel the neat plan forming in my head. Not yet. Evidence first.
Then a message from a stranger named Genevieve Boyd.
"I have something to show you," she said. She sent me a recording of chat logs—Matteo's messages, tender and casual; photos of him, of transfers, and one where Matteo had shown her a "divorce certificate" that didn't exist.
Genevieve was young. She told me, "I thought he said he was divorced. He lied."
"You saw this?" I asked.
"Yes. He helped fund our campus show," she said. "He paid everything. He came to a few rehearsals. I thought he was kind. I thought he was a good man."
She was furious when she found the pinned chat labeled "wife." She called me "Mrs. Chavez," and then she said, "I'll help."
"Why?" I asked.
She replied quickly. "Because he lied to me. And because you deserve to know."
I sent her money—twenty thousand—and then another twenty thousand to keep her going. She called me "boss" and promised to help with the plan.
That night I told Matteo our daughter was ill and that I wouldn't be in contact. He did not ask how sick she was. He only asked how long.
"Maybe a few weeks," I said. "Maybe a month."
He sounded relieved.
When he asked why, I said, "Because it's easier."
I flew to Shanghai.
I booked a cheap room near his hotel and sat in a café with a plain T-shirt and a baseball cap. Jared had told me Matteo's schedule—training from ten to twelve, three to six. I sat, watched the hotel doors, and waited.
Matteo came down with a woman on his arm.
"Is that—?" I murmured, my fingers steady on the camera. The reflection on the buckle again. The woman was Estefania. Close as if she belonged there.
"Ready?" Genevieve whispered into my phone. "I'm at the entrance."
She walked up as if the whole scene was her stage. She called out, loud and clear, "Excuse me!"
Matteo startled, eyes wide. "What are you doing here?"
Estefania looked caught, then defiant. "Who are you?" she asked, then softened. "You must be a student who—"
Genevieve did not wait.
"I'm his wife," she said.
"You're who?" Estefania spat.
Matteo moved his hand as if to shield himself. "We can talk upstairs."
"Talk?" Genevieve laughed. "You left your wife with a child and came to play house? Who do you think you are?"
I recorded every word.
Estefania barked back, "I didn't come here to be insulted. You don't get to name me."
"Not to sound cruel," Genevieve said, "but you were in his reflection and you'd better explain to me which reflection you'd prefer—the one where you're lonely, or the one where you're the other woman."
Words became knives. Estefania moved like a startled cat.
Then Genevieve's hand struck her cheek with a hard, ringing slap.
The slap was loud enough to turn heads. Estefania's hand flew to her face. For a moment she froze, then lunged. Genevieve sidestepped with a flick and Estefania's foot tangled; she fell, knees scraping the pavement.
"Look at you," Genevieve said, voice cool. "Pretending you didn't know."
She kicked once. "Stay down."
People gathered. Phones came up in a rising chorus. I kept filming. The scene was raw: a young teacher on the ground, crying; a man whose face had drained of color; a ring of strangers whispered and pointed.
"Don't be dramatic," Matteo said. "She hit me."
"They're lovers!" someone shouted.
"Call the police!" someone else said.
Genevieve took her bow and walked away, triumphant. I turned off the call and sent a big transfer. "Job done," I texted. "Delete your accounts after tonight."
That day Matteo's panic looked small. He phoned me that evening. I answered from outside the café.
"Esme," he said. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," I said, voice flat. "Just think about what you did."
He tried to apologize. I listened, letting his promises dissolve like sugar in water. I hung up.
Back home, I started the long, quiet work: move assets, protect our daughter, prepare a plan to take everything but leave the show to others. I am not someone who flies into rages; I plan scalpel-sharp moves.
I purchased shares in my own name, moved funds into accounts my parents controlled, transferred the house to Elsie.
It took weeks. It took nights wearing the face of a dutiful wife while I was pulling threads around us.
I also became a good liar. I played Matteo like a piano. I let him think I forgave him.
Then came the next act.
"I miss us," he said one quiet evening. "Come have dinner with me this weekend. Alone."
"Okay," I said. "I booked a special place. We deserve a night."
That was the trap.
I told Estefania, months later, to come to my birthday. "You don't have to," I wrote. "But if you come, you'll see how the world looks when all its mirrors break."
She arrived, uninvited in her own mind. I sat at the head of a long table in a private room. Family, friends, colleagues—people Matteo knew—were there. Candles glowed. The food covered the table like a tide.
When she stormed in, eyes red, she slapped him in front of us. People turned. Someone pulled out a phone and began filming. Matteo's mouth opened and closed like a fish.
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
"We were lovers," she sobbed. "You lied. You said you were divorced."
"Enough!" Matteo's voice cracked. "This is my wife's birthday. Leave."
"Why did you tell me you were free?" she asked. "Why did you show me that damn photo?"
I leaned forward and flicked on a speaker. "Play the video," I said.
From the table a staff person projected a clip on the wall. It was the hotel confrontation, the slap, the tumble. The room's murmur rose into an unpleasant wave.
"Is this true?" someone whispered.
Matteo tried to stand, hands shaking. "Esme, please—"
"Silence," I said, and the microphone amplified my voice.
"You can speak," I told Estefania. "Tell everyone how you met. Tell them why you didn't ask whether he has a wife."
She stammered, tears shining. "I—he said—"
"Hold on." I turned to Matteo. "You told her you were divorced. You asked Genevieve to keep quiet. You took her into hotels. You lied."
People began to whisper, and hands came up to record. Matteo's color left him; his pride cracked into something animal.
"Get out!" he shouted at Estefania and at Genevieve both. "Both of you, get out!"
"No," Genevieve said. "You get out."
"Stop being ridiculous!" Matteo snapped. He swung, then stopped as several people in the room boxed him in with looks.
Then the worst thing for him happened: the story reached his circle. A manager he respected stood up and asked for the video to be sent to corporate. A colleague I had subtly whispered to slid away and made a call. People began to form a ring of witnesses, phones everywhere, their screens recording everything like little jury boxes.
Matteo's reaction changed in measured stages: shock, then anger, then defiance, then pleading.
"Esme," he said finally, voice an animal's rattle, "we can fix this. I will fix this. I will do anything."
"Anything includes signing a paper that gives me half?" I asked softly. "Or will it include staying faithful?"
He opened his mouth.
I held up an envelope and let it fall, like a curtain. The room looked at the paper on the table. Inside the envelope were printed copies of transfers, of messages, of hotel bookings, of the photograph and of my messages showing him dismissing the company pickup. I had backed everything up. I had done my work.
He sank.
"Forgive me," he said. "Please."
"Get out," I said.
He rose like a man moving through a dream, walked past people filming, and left. At the door he stopped, looked back, and fell to his knees.
It would have been a private begging if not for the phones and the faces that peered down on him. People murmured. Some spat. Some were silent. One person clapped once, as if blessing his leaving.
But I was not finished. Public humiliation was not enough. The rules demanded I take steps to ensure he could not simply repackage himself.
I told precisely the truth, louder than he could manage to deny, in a room full of people who mattered: "He lied to women, he lied to me, and he put his family's name at risk. I will not give him the house, the trust, the money. I'm filing for divorce. He will leave with what he can carry in one suitcase."
People gasped. The room smelled like lemon and disbelief.
Matteo's face crumpled. "You're lying!"
"Do you want me to read the messages?" I asked. "The ones where you call her 'my girl'?"
"Stop this," he whispered.
Estefania stood up, small and broken, and said, "I am so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, Esme."
"You already did that," I answered.
The rest is legal and slow. I moved the house into Elsie's name. I transferred our savings to accounts beyond his reach. I had hired a lawyer—no, I had arranged a path—and I made him sign the papers at the first chance, under pressure and under the weight of his public collapse.
What I had not told him was a simple truth: I wanted him to see the loss. I wanted his lies to be turned into something he could no longer sweep under a rug. I wanted the world to recognize that a man like him could be punished not only by police but by the social ledger—by the gaze of neighbors, friends, and colleagues.
But my revenge was not without consequence.
The months after the birthday were messy. He was held for a few days for the scuffle, and Estefania had a concussion and required stitches. The police questioned everyone. I gave my statement. I watched the news and social feeds. People judged. The faces of those who had once been friendly turned hard.
Then came the slow decay of his life.
He tried to re-enter our home as if nothing had happened. He brought my parents to beg. He promised to change. I signed the divorce papers in front of him and the lawyer. He lost face at his company. Rumors spread. He became smaller in every sense I understood.
As for Estefania, her life folded in a harsher way. I had printed flyers—carefully done, black type on white paper—and had them quietly placed near her neighborhood. The kindergarten heard. Parents whispered. She lost the job.
"Do you regret it?" a friend asked me months later, half-accusing.
"Regret what?" I answered. "The truth? The pieces I had to pull loose to save my daughter? No."
"I could have broken him in other ways," I admitted once to myself. "But I wanted him to feel the kind of nakedness his lies had given me."
Genevieve faded away once her role was done. She had been a girl with easy enthusiasm and messy morals. She once texted me, "You paid me a lot." I replied, "You were paid for the truth."
Time did its patient work. Matteo tried to remarry, tried to build a life with Estefania according to a rumor I heard months later. They were poor at the only thing they shared—honesty. Their marriage crashed under debts and infidelity. Word came that she had been hurt again. Word came that they fought. Word came that neither of them would appear in my life ever again.
Two years later I moved to my parents' town, picked up writing again, and watched my daughter thrive. She had been my reason from the first photo to the last legal signature.
One afternoon, when the house smelled of lemon and the light on my desk slanted in a certain way, I deleted a text from an unknown number. It was likely from him. I made one final choice to block and erase and move.
"Why are you smiling?" Elsie asked, leaning into my lap. She was nine now, and she had a voice like wind chimes.
"I just remembered a funny song," I said, tickling her ear.
"Planting the Sun?" she guessed.
"Yes," I said. "Plant the Sun. We keep it safe."
I kept the photo of the suitcase for a while. Once in a while I looked at the silver buckles and the two reflections, and I let the memory pass like a small, hard lesson. We were not the same people who believed easily. We had learned to guard and to plant light, not lose ourselves to the dark.
And when someone asked me once, years later, if it had been worth it, I would have said, "I lost a lot to find a better life." Then I would take Elsie's hand and walk out into the small, sunlit street where the children's laughter folded like warm cloth over the day.
The End
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