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เซลฟี่ของเธอดูไร้พิษภัย—จนฉันเห็นห้องน้ำบ้านตัวเองอยู่ข้างหลังเธอ
เรื่องฉบับเต็มด้านล่างเป็นภาษาอังกฤษ
It started with a polite Facebook follow. My husband Tom’s new administrative assistant, Emily, had friended me after the company holiday party. She seemed sweet—early twenties, always posting about her cats and brunch spots. I didn’t think much of it. I barely knew her.
That Thursday afternoon, I was scrolling through my feed while waiting for a pot of tea to steep. A selfie of Emily appeared: her face in the mirror, phone held up, winking at the camera. The caption read: “Finally Friday Eve! Feeling myself.” I almost scrolled past. Then my eyes snagged on the background.
The bathroom behind her was my own.
I knew it instantly. The wallpaper—a custom mural of deep indigo vines with tiny gold-threaded blossoms—ran across the wall behind the vanity. My husband and I had commissioned it three years ago from a local artist after our trip to Morocco. The artist had painted the vines to look like they were climbing toward the light, each flower unique. There was no other wallpaper like it in the world.
But there was Emily, grinning in my master bathroom.
I set the phone down. Picked it up again. Zoomed in until the pixels blurred. The gold thread caught the light exactly the way it did in our house. The marble countertop had the same faint veining. The faucet was the one I’d chosen from a catalog, a brushed nickel waterfall style. There was no mistake.
My hands started shaking. I took a screenshot and pulled up our family photo album on my laptop, matching the wallpaper in a dozen pictures. Identical. The same vine that curved behind the faucet, the same flower that leaned slightly left. I felt cold, then hot. The tea whistled, but I didn’t move.
I waited until Tom came home at seven. He hung his coat in the closet and called out, “Something smells good.” I was sitting at the kitchen table, my phone face-up. He saw my expression and stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
I didn’t say anything. I just slid the phone across the table. The selfie glowed on the screen. He picked it up, and I watched his face change—first confusion, then recognition, then a flicker of panic he tried to hide.
“Why,” I said slowly, “is your assistant taking selfies in our bathroom?”
He set the phone down as if it were hot. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it? Tell me.”
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture he always made when cornered. “She came over a couple of times to pick up some files.”
“At night?” I asked. “Because this was posted at eleven PM.”
He didn’t answer. I felt the air leave the room. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked loudly.
“How long?” I asked.
“A few months.”
I stood up. My legs felt like jelly. “In our home. In our bed. In the bathroom I decorated with wallpaper from our honeymoon.” I heard my voice crack.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for me. I stepped back.
“Don’t.”
He looked at the floor. “I never meant for you to find out like this.”
I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “You never meant for me to find out at all. But she posted a selfie. She didn’t even think to check the background.” I picked up my phone and stared at the photo again. Emily looked so carefree, so unaware that she was destroying a marriage with a single tap.
That night, Tom packed a bag and left. I stayed in the living room, curled on the couch, the phone in my hand. I kept seeing the wallpaper behind her face—the vines I had chosen, the flowers I had loved. Now that bathroom felt like a crime scene. I would have to strip the wallpaper, paint it white, erase every trace of what had happened.
But even then, I knew I’d still see it every time I closed my eyes: the gold threads glinting, the indigo climbing, and her smile reflected in the mirror.