As I was a little girl, my mom taught me something that stuck with me for life. She said, “If you’re ever in trouble and can’t speak up, use the code word.”
While it was a little phrase—lemon pie—ridiculous, even, to us, it meant everything. A secret signal. A call for help when everything else felt too dangerous. I never thought I’d need it again. Not until two months ago.
Two months. That’s how long I’d been gone—looking after my mom during her recovery from hip replacement surgery.
Most of that time was spent practically living at the hospital, running on stale coffee, snack machine junk, and catnaps in chairs clearly not designed for sleep.
I ached for my own bed, my pillow, the familiar scent of home. But more than anything, I missed Michael—my husband.
We’d been married for four years. Not perfect, but we had our routines. Between busy work schedules, we always made space for our little traditions—takeout on Thursdays, grocery shopping together on Sundays.
The distance had felt strange, like part of me was out of sync. Michael had stayed in touch with sweet texts, video calls every other night, and occasional reminders that he was keeping the apartment tidy (though I knew his version of “tidy” was questionable).
Still, just knowing he was there made it easier.
The day I finally came back, I felt like I could breathe properly again. I took the longest shower in recent memory, slipped into my fluffy white robe, and twisted my wet hair into a towel. I was just about to pour myself a glass of wine when I heard it—the front door unlocking.
I froze. My first assumption was that Michael had come back for something. But then it hit me—his car hadn’t pulled into the driveway.
Heart suddenly racing, I crept toward the hallway.
And there she was.
A young woman I didn’t recognize stood in the doorway, dressed sharply in ankle boots and a tailored blazer, a keyring dangling in her hand. She looked up at me with a startled, slightly annoyed expression—like I was the intruder.
“Who are YOU?” she asked, like I was the intruder.
I raised an eyebrow. “Who am I? I live here. Who are YOU?”
She frowned. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Well, I’ve been away for two months,” I said, folding my arms. “Who gave you keys to MY apartment?”
“Michael did,” she replied casually. “He said I could come by anytime.”
Michael. My Michael.
My stomach dropped.
I forced a breath. “Oh, did he?” I said slowly. “Because I—his wife—am standing right here, and this is news to me.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait… he told me he was single.”
“Of course he did,” I muttered.
She glanced between me and the keys in her hand. “I think I should go.”
“Not so fast,” I said, my voice firm. “Come with me.”
She paused for a moment. I could see the uncertainty in her eyes, like she was weighing whether or not to believe me. But something in my voice must have convinced her, because after a beat, she stepped inside and followed me into the apartment.
There was Michael, perched at the kitchen counter, casually eating cereal right from the bowl. His hair was tousled, and he was wearing one of my favorite sweatshirts—the one I’d been counting down the days to reclaim.
“Who’s THAT?” the woman asked, looking at him.
“That’s Michael,” I said. “My husband.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not Michael.”
I looked between the two of them. “What are you talking about?”
Michael blinked, spoon mid-air. “Okay, now I’m really confused.”
The woman took out her phone and opened a dating app. After a few quick swipes, she turned the screen toward me, showing me a profile photo.
It wasn’t Michael.
It was Nick.
Michael’s younger brother—the same one who had dropped out of college twice, borrowed Michael’s car only to get it towed, and was constantly chasing some “next big thing” that never went anywhere. And now, it seemed, he’d added a new stunt to the list: posing as Michael and turning our apartment into his personal dating hotspot.
Michael groaned. “Of course. He kept asking me when I’d be home. I thought he was just being weird. Again.”
I turned to the woman, who now looked like she was putting puzzle pieces together. “Let me guess—he never let you come over when I was home?”
“No,” she said, voice shaky. “He always said his roommate was around. I just assumed he had a clingy friend.”
Michael sighed. “I’m going to murder him. Or make him clean the oven. Either way.”
The woman finally smiled, just a little. “I can’t believe I fell for this. He told me he was an architect. I should’ve known when he spelled it ‘arkitect.’”
I chuckled. “Let’s start over. I’m Emily.”
She shook my hand. “Sonya.”
“So,” Michael said. “What do we do now?”
Sonya stood straighter. “I want revenge.”
Michael grinned. “I like her.”
Fifteen minutes later, a plan was in place.
Michael texted Nick:
“Hey bro. We’re making lasagna tonight. Come by.”
Nick replied almost instantly:
“Yesss! Be there in 20.”
We set the table like it was Sunday dinner. Sonya touched up her lipstick. I reheated the store-bought lasagna. Michael popped open a bottle of wine and poured everyone a glass.
Right on cue, Nick strutted in with a grin.
“Smells awesome! Where’s my girl—”
Then he saw Sonya.
“Heyyy babe! What a surprise!”
Sonya folded her arms. “Save it, Nick.”
Nick glanced at Michael. “Bro?”
Michael stood. “We know everything, ‘Michael.’”
Nick froze.
Then Sonya, with Oscar-worthy flair, picked up her glass of water and flung it at him. Water splashed across his face and dripped onto the floor.
Nick blinked, water streaming down his cheeks. “Okay… fair.”
“You’re paying our rent this month,” Michael said.
“What?!” Nick sputtered.
“And you’re giving back anything Sonya gave you,” I added.
Nick cringed. “Even the AirPods?”
“Especially the AirPods,” Sonya snapped.
Nick sulked all the way out the door.
After the door closed, we all burst into laughter.
Sonya wiped her eyes. “That was better than therapy.”
Michael raised his glass. “To lasagna and justice.”
Sonya clinked glasses with us. “Just tell me there are no more brothers.”
I smiled. “Just a cat who hates everyone equally.”
And that, dear reader, is how I came home after two months, caught my lying brother-in-law, made a new friend, and finally had a proper meal. Life may be unpredictable, but sometimes, it writes one heck of a story.
