When 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.”

It was a little phrase—lemon pie—ridiculous, even. But 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 away, caring for my mom after her hip replacement surgery. I practically lived at the hospital, surviving on lukewarm coffee, vending machine snacks, and two-hour naps in chairs that were clearly never meant for sleeping. I missed my bed, my own pillow, and the smell of home. But more than anything, I missed Michael—my husband.

Michael and I had been married for four years, and though we weren’t perfect, we had a rhythm. We both worked a lot, but we always found time for takeout Thursdays and our Sunday grocery runs. Being away for so long felt like something was missing. He sent me sweet messages, video called every other night, and reassured me he was keeping the apartment clean (which I doubted, knowing his idea of clean). Still, his presence, even from afar, was comforting.

The day I finally came home, it felt like my lungs could breathe again. I took the longest shower of my life, wrapped myself in my fluffy white robe, and twisted my damp hair up into a towel turban. I was about to pour myself a glass of wine when I heard it—the sound of the front door unlocking.

I paused. My first thought was Michael had forgotten something. But then I realized—I hadn’t heard his car pull in. I padded toward the hallway, heart picking up a beat.

There, standing in the entryway, was a young woman I had never seen before.

She was stylish, in heeled ankle boots and a fitted blazer, and held a set of keys. She looked up at me and blinked, confused and a little irritated.

“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 hesitated. I could tell she wasn’t sure if she should trust me, but something in my tone must’ve convinced her. She followed me into the apartment.

Michael was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cereal straight from the bowl. His hair was a mess, and he wore one of my favorite sweatshirts—the one I had been looking forward to stealing back.

“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 pulled out her phone and opened a dating app. She swiped for a second, then held up a profile picture.

It wasn’t Michael.

It was Nick.

Michael’s younger brother. The one who dropped out of college twice. The one who borrowed Michael’s car and got it towed. The one who always had big ideas and zero follow-through. And apparently, the one who had been pretending to be Michael while using our apartment as a dating lounge.

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.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.