When Levent returned from his business trip, he looked like he’d just stepped out of the final scene of a disaster movie… You know how the main character looks like they’re about to faint after surviving everything? That’s exactly how he looked. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. My husband stood in the doorway, dragging his suitcase like an anchor. His eyes gleamed like glass, and his skin was deathly pale.
A thin layer of sweat had formed on his forehead; when I reached out to take his bag, he wouldn’t let go. He just left the suitcase there, as if it would collapse if he lifted it again. “I feel terrible, Leyla,” he murmured in a hoarse voice. “I’ve hardly slept. I’ve been working my heart out since the conference.” I nodded. I’d been awake every two hours for the past five nights because of two babies with colic who seemed to take turns crying. Still, a feeling of guilt washed over me. While I sat “at home,” he had been working hard. “I feel terrible, Leyla,” he repeated.
He headed towards the stairs, but I stopped him. “No, darling,” I said. “Please go to the guest room. Don’t go near the twins until you understand what’s happening.” Levent didn’t object; he walked away as if simply moving away from the stairs would do him good. When morning came, a rash had bloomed on his upper body; angry, red blisters forming dense clusters on his shoulders, arms, and neck… I felt a sharp, fearful knot in my stomach as I pressed the thermometer to his forehead. “Don’t go near the twins until you understand what’s happening.” Look, I’m not a doctor; I’m just a new mom with Google at her fingertips. And every search on the screen yielded a single word: Chickenpox. “Levent,” I said, gently pulling down the collar of his shirt. “This looks like chickenpox, darling.
These rashes match almost every photo I’ve seen online.” He looked at me as if I were accusing him of hiding a criminal. “No,” he snarled. “It’s probably stress. My immune system has collapsed, Leyla. This conference has worn me out.” But I was already in survival mode. I carried him trays of food as if he were a nobleman. I cooked soups just like his mother used to; chicken, carrots, perfectly seasoned… He didn’t even notice my efforts. I put cold cloths on his forehead as he groaned like a man who had survived a noble battle; he acted as if I had forgotten that we had only been separated for a week. I never let the twins go downstairs. I didn’t even allow them a moment to see their father.
I sterilized every bottle and every pacifier twice. I washed them with lavender water to help them sleep, and the baby monitor was always with me; its screen flashed like a warning light. I showered after every contact with Levent. Sometimes in the middle of the night, shivering while waiting for the water to warm up… I wiped every doorknob. I opened the windows and washed his sheets more often than he ever said “thank you” for. One day, when I came in with clean sheets, he said, “You don’t have to go to all this trouble, Leyla.” “I have to,” I replied. “The twins haven’t been vaccinated yet.” Frowning, he said, “Then go get it done, Leyla. They can’t. It can only be done after one year old. Haven’t you even read one of those childcare books?” He didn’t answer. He just turned to the other side of the bed as if the subject was too heavy to bear. But I endured.
I endured it all, and I was exhausted. Levent, even while I was applying zinc ointment to his back, continued to tell me stories about the pressures at work, the terrible clients, and the long nights spent preparing presentations for the conference. I tried not to think about how far we had grown apart long before this trip. That weekend, I was actually going out to dinner with my mother, Uncle Kemal, and Kader. Uncle Kemal was my stepfather, whom I loved very much. My stepsister, Kader, was, to put it mildly, a difficult person.
I was about to cancel when a message came from my stepfather: “Hi daughter, I’m sorry, but we have to postpone dinner. Kader is sick. She looks like she has chickenpox. Your mother and I were so excited to see the twins, but oh well, we’ll see each other soon, okay?” Then he sent me a photo. And everything changed. When I opened it, I saw Kader wrapped in a blanket on my mother’s armchair; her face covered in the same red blisters I’d treated in Levent’s.
The same place. The same pattern. The same week. Kader’s “girls’ trip.” Levent’s “business trip.” I stared at the photo until the screen went black, then clicked again, hoping maybe the image had changed, maybe I’d misinterpreted it. Maybe the rashes weren’t the same.
But even though my brain was still trying to deny it, my body had already understood the truth. “Is everything alright?” Levent’s voice echoed faintly from downstairs. “I can eat, Leyla.” “Yes,” I called back, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m changing the twins’ diapers. I’ll be right down.” The lie felt like sour milk on my tongue.
Chickenpox is contagious. It can infect anyone. Maybe they both pressed the same elevator button. Maybe it was nothing at all. But my instincts no longer believed in coincidences. They believed in timing. And they believed in my husband’s averted gaze when I asked about the hotel. They believed in fate’s silence. That night, while Levent slept softly, snoring under the influence of his allergy medication, I sat cross-legged on the floor in the nursery; one twin slept on my shoulder, the other in the crib.
The room smelled of baby lotion and fabric softener; warm, soft things that didn’t deserve that approaching dark shadow… I didn’t want to be the woman who snooped through her husband’s phone. But I didn’t want to be the woman who was made a fool of either. When the twins finally fell into that deep, peaceful sleep, I went to the guest room, picked up Levent’s phone, and went to the laundry room, closing the door behind me. I opened the photos. Then the “Secret” folder… The first picture almost made me drop the phone: Levent, in a white bathrobe, a glass of champagne in his hand, and a silly grin on his face. The next one hit harder: Fate, in the exact same bathrobe, her hand on Levent’s chest.
And another: My husband’s lips on my stepsister’s neck… I stared at those photos until I couldn’t breathe. And for the first time in weeks, I understood what betrayal really looked like. But this was more than that. This was an infection, both literally and figuratively, brought into our home under the guise of “stress.” Levent had allowed me to look after him.
He had asked me to apply ointment to the same skin he’d embraced my stepsister. He had allowed me to struggle to protect our children while he brought that danger home. I should have gathered my twins and gone to a hotel. I should have taken them to safety and left Levent to his fate. I should have been braver… Yet I didn’t confront him.
The next morning, as if nothing had happened, I gave him a cup of tea. “How do you feel?” I asked distractedly as I opened the windows. “I’m better,” he said. “Much better, Leyla. I think I’m recovering.” “That’s wonderful, darling,” I said, nodding my head. She smiled, thinking I’d forgiven her; but I knew everything.
I picked up my phone and texted my stepfather: “Let’s have dinner at our place this weekend. I hope Kader is better now? I’ll cook. I’m tired of lullabies, I need some adult talk.” He replied immediately: “Great! We’re coming. Kader is doing great, she even went to the gym today. Your mother and I can’t wait to see the babies. We bought some really cute onesies.”…
to be continued on the next page…
