Anniversary Night: Exposing His Sweet Sister

I made a detour to the pharmacy on my way to work and bought a bottle of stomach medication for myself.

The community health center opened its door at 8:00 am.

I put on my white coat and visited the patient who was occupying Bed No. 3 first, Patricia Vellis. As I changed her bandages, she grabbed my hand and refused to let go, asking, "Does your husband treat you well, Ms. Swanson?"

I smiled and answered in the affirmative.

A smile spread across Patricia's face. "That's good. Finding a man who treats you well is the most important thing in a woman's life."

I bent over and rubbed her back, refraining from continuing the conversation.

I returned to the nurse station when it was time for my afternoon break.

I pulled out a light blue notebook from the drawer and flipped through it. Every page was filled with my observations of Rebecca's so-called androphobia symptoms for the last two years.

I noted down the days where she locked arms with Colin of her own volition, where she burrowed into his blankets instead of curling up in a corner when she had a "nightmare".

I recorded how she had trembled so violently that she couldn't even hold a fork when a deliveryman stopped by but immediately calmed down after he left.

A patient who was actually suffering from androphobia would refrain from making direct contact even with a man who they were familiar with. They definitely wouldn't cling to one of their own volition. This was clearly stated in the third article of the clinical diagnostic criteria.

On top of that, I had discovered something even more damning three months ago.

When I was scrolling through my social media, I came across an account whose profile photo looked extremely similar to Rebecca. When I tapped into the account, I realized that it did indeed belong to her. She was just using another name.

The Rebecca in that account's photos and the Rebecca who lived in my home were like two completely different people.

She took selfies of herself and her friends clinking glasses at a party. She flirted with unfamiliar men who she met online. She flashed a victory sign as she took photos of herself in front of dressing room mirrors in shopping malls.

Rebecca looked nothing like a person who was suffering from androphobia.

I took over 100 screenshots of her account and saved them to my "Daily" album.

…

My phone vibrated when I was having lunch.

Colin had forwarded a message to me. His father, Isaac Luther, had posted a photo in the family group chat. In the photo, Rebecca stood behind Isaac and massaged his back. She was grinning at the camera, flashing her small canines.

The caption read, "My adopted daughter is even more thoughtful than my own flesh and blood. Be sure to take a leaf out of her book, Nat!"

Colin's relatives flooded the photo with likes. One of Colin's aunts also left a thumbs-up emoji in the comments.

I took a screenshot of Isaac's photo and message, saving it as the 317th photo in my album.

After my shift was over, I headed back home.

The security guard called out to me from the security booth when I walked past the entrance of the apartment.

"There's a package here that's addressed to Colin Luther, Mrs. Luther. Do you mind taking it with you?"

It was an intricately-wrapped bouquet of white roses. A card was nestled among the roses. I pulled out the card and glanced at it. "Thank you for the last three years, Colin—Becca."

Three years.

Rebecca wasn't referring to my third wedding anniversary with Colin. Instead, she was referring to how she had moved in with us for three years.

I took the bouquet with me as I headed upstairs and placed it in front of Rebecca's door. I then changed into a set of casual clothes and left the house, taking a 40-minute bus ride to the market in the old west side of the city.

My mom Lydia Ashford's stall was located in the deepest part of the market. She had a foldable table, a few baskets of fresh vegetables, and a weighing scale with her.

She was crouching down and weighing a bag of carrots for an old man when I arrived. The skin on the back of her hand had split open in several parts, but she had simply slapped a few low-quality bandaids over them.

I stood to the side and watched her serve her customers. After she was done, I approached the stall and placed a bag of hand creams next to the weighing scale.

Mom was briefly stunned when she looked up and saw me. A smile broke across her face when she said, "You're here. Have you eaten yet?"

I crouched down and began loading the vegetable baskets for her.

We didn't talk about anything important. We chatted about the prices of cabbages that year and whether the daughter of Matthew Patterson, the man who ran the stall next to hers, was engaged.

Before I left, Mom stuffed a bag of oranges into my bag.

"They're from the orange tree in the garden," she said. "They taste extra sweet this year."

I peeled one as I stood at the bus station.

Just like Mom said, it was sweet. In fact, it was so sweet that it made my nose burn.

I wired 2,000 dollars to Mom every month, but she didn't spend a single penny that I gave her. Instead, she saved all the money in a bank account.

When I asked her about it, she said, "I'm saving it for a rainy day."

A rainy day.

Although Mom never asked me about my circumstances, her words made it blatantly clear that she was aware of what was going on.

…

It was close to 10:00 pm when I made it back home.

Colin was sitting in the living room, watching a movie with Rebecca. The volume of the television was turned up quite high.

I glanced at the coffee table when I passed by the living room. There was another package—an imported humidifier that cost more than 200 dollars.

I entered the study and closed the door. I then pulled out my phone and navigated to Damien's chat.

I didn't hesitate this time. I organized the screenshots that I had collected and took pictures of every page in the light blue notebook before sending everything to him.

"Is this enough evidence, Mr. Wesley?" I asked.

Ten minutes later, Damien replied.

"Keep going."