The next morning, I left for “an early meeting”—only, I didn’t go to work. I parked around the corner and waited. I wasn’t sure what I was even expecting. Part of me hoped Lila had just gotten confused, that it was all an innocent misunderstanding.
At 8:30 a.m. sharp, Rachel walked out the door, wearing her usual jeans and cardigan, her hair pulled into a simple ponytail. Nothing flashy, just… Rachel. She waved at Lila in the window, then got in her car and drove off.
I followed.
We drove across town. My pulse thundered in my ears as I trailed her to a part of the city we rarely visited. She pulled into a modern office plaza with bold silver lettering on the building: Nova Image Studio & Talent Agency.
My stomach twisted.
I parked a few spaces away, watching as Rachel stepped out of the car and reached for a bag from her trunk—a long garment bag. She slung it over her shoulder and disappeared inside.
I sat frozen for a moment. Then I got out, walked up to the building, and slipped in behind a group of people entering. The lobby was buzzing. Bright lights, sleek counters, people with camera equipment and portfolios moving briskly. I felt like I had walked into a different universe.
And then I saw her.
Rachel was talking to a tall woman in a fitted blazer, who handed her something—another garment bag, this one clearly labeled with the studio’s logo. They smiled, exchanged a few words, and Rachel disappeared through a side door.
I hesitated. Then I followed, careful and quiet. I stopped outside the door, peering in.
It was a studio—mirrored walls, ring lights, racks of expensive clothing. There was a makeup chair in the corner, and beside it, a table scattered with palettes, lipsticks, and hair tools.
And then I saw her again—stepping out from behind a curtain.
I barely recognized her.
She was wearing a deep emerald green dress that shimmered under the lights. Her makeup was flawless, her hair styled into soft waves that framed her face perfectly. She didn’t look like the woman I had breakfast with every morning. She looked like a model. No… she was a model. Because moments later, she stepped confidently onto a small platform and began posing under the guidance of a photographer.
I watched in stunned silence as the camera clicked and flashed, as she shifted poses, her expressions changing from sultry to sweet, playful to poised. I felt like the floor beneath me wasn’t quite real anymore.
After maybe twenty minutes, Rachel returned to the changing area, reemerging minutes later in her plain jeans and blouse, her “Mom” persona once again intact. She looked like the same woman I’d kissed goodbye that morning.
But everything had changed.
I waited until she exited the building, walking briskly back to her car. That’s when I stepped forward.
“Rachel.”
She turned. Her face froze in shock when she saw me. “Eric? What are you—?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said quietly. “Nova Image Studio? Modeling? What’s going on?”
She looked around nervously, as if someone might overhear us. Her voice lowered. “Can we talk in the car?”
We got into her car and sat in silence for a beat. Then she exhaled, her shoulders sagging.
“I was going to tell you,” she began. “Eventually.”
“When?” I asked. “After ten more shoots? A magazine cover?”
She gave a soft laugh—more out of nerves than humor. “I didn’t think it would go this far. It started as a one-time thing. I met someone through Carrie’s friend at a party. She said I had a look, asked if I ever modeled. I laughed it off. But then I sent in a few photos. Just for fun. I didn’t expect to hear back. And then they offered me a spot. And… I loved it. I forgot what it was like to feel beautiful. Powerful.”
I was quiet, staring straight ahead.
Rachel continued, her voice trembling. “I didn’t tell you because I thought… if you saw me like that, you’d think I was fake. You always loved that I was ‘low-maintenance.’ The last thing I wanted was to make you feel like I was hiding something important. But then it became something important.”
I turned to look at her, finally meeting her eyes. “Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure if I trusted myself,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to admit how much I missed being more than a wife, more than a mom. This… it was a piece of me I buried a long time ago. And when I started again, it felt like coming home to a version of myself I didn’t even know I missed.”
I sat back in the seat, trying to take it all in. Hurt and understanding waged war inside me.
Finally, I said, “I wish you’d just let me in on it. I might’ve surprised you.”
She reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, Eric. Truly. No more secrets.”
I looked down at our intertwined fingers, then back up at her. “Lila spilled the beans, by the way. She’s been practicing her walk in your heels.”
Rachel laughed through the tears gathering in her eyes. “She’s got a k..1ller strut, doesn’t she?”
“She really does.”
We sat there for a long while, hand in hand. The honesty between us raw, imperfect—but finally real.
Later that night, Lila came into the living room, wearing the heels again, her lips painted red with her crayon “lipstick.”
“Look, Mommy, I’m you!” she declared.
Rachel smiled, scooped her up, and whispered, “Yes, baby. You are.”