My wife, Camille, is as French as they come. We met in college while she was an exchange student studying International Politics, and we have been together ever since.

Camille’s parents live in France, but they visit us twice a year. I’ve learnt a few weird words and phrases in French, but the language hasn’t stuck with me.

Aside than my chéri and other French foods, I don’t know much. It’s only been four days since my in-laws arrived, but I’m already feeling left out at the dinner table when they’re all speaking in French.

So, I decided to invite my friend, Nolan to have dinner and meet Camille’s parents. That way, I would also have someone to talk to.

We’re all gathered around the table, enjoying our bouillabaisse. Nolan and I were discussing an audit at work, while Camille and her parents were merrily speaking in French.

Everything appears fine, right? Wrong.

While we’re talking about work, Nolan’s face turns as white as a ghost, and he forcefully nudges my arm with his elbow.

“Go upstairs and look underneath your bed. “Trust me,” he murmurs desperately.

My first reaction was to laugh it off, as it made no sense. But a glance at his wide eyes informed me this wasn’t a joke.

I said, “Excuse me,” to the table. “I’ll be right back.”

I reluctantly crept inside my bedroom, feeling as if I were entering a bizarre French noir picture. I lifted Camille’s silver silk robe from the floor and leaned down to peek beneath the bed.

My heart was racing like I was ready to have heart disease. But there it was—a single black box.

I opened the box with nervous fingers and hastily went through the contents, not knowing if Camille would come seeking for me. Then, in the bottom of the box, there found a series of images of Camille wearing almost nothing.

My heart hammered harder, and nausea spread throughout my body.

What have I just stumbled upon? I asked myself.

As I was about to put everything back, the world turned black.

It must have been hours later when I awoke in a hospital ward surrounded by vacant beds. The bright light blazed down on me as my eyes acclimated to the new surroundings and the pungent scent of detergent.

“Woah,” I said, my throat scratchy.

That’s when I spotted Nolan sitting next to me, his head leaned up on his arm.

“You passed out in your bedroom, mate,” the man remarked. “What happened?”

Then everything came back to me. Camille’s box beneath the bed, my voracious curiosity, along with an accelerated pulse rate caused by a panic episode.

But I did catch a glance inside the package. It turned out to be my personal Pandora’s box. There were damning images of Camille, love letters to a man named Benoit, and trinkets, all of which contributed to a story of treachery.

Camille was concealing an aff::air.

“You were taking forever,” Nolan explained. “So I followed you and saw you passed out on the floor. I shut the box and slid it back beneath before phoning Camille and an ambulance.”

“How did you know?” I asked, remembering Nolan’s war::ning.

“I did French throughout high school, Chad,” said the gentleman. “During our conversation, Camille mentioned concealing things beneath the bed. “I am sorry.”

“Where’s Camille?” I asked.

“She stated in the cafeteria that she needed to stretch her legs. So she went to grab some coffee.

I leaned back and remembered the letters my wife had been receiving.

I was discharged the next day, and Nolan took me home. Camille fussed over me, preparing me a nutritious drink and ensuring that I was OK. Of course I wasn’t. Nothing was okay.

That afternoon, I had to put the record straight. I couldn’t look at Camille and feel the same way I had before.

“I can’t continue in this marriage,” I told Camille as she gave me a juice.

“What are you talking about?” she inquired.

“I know about the black box under the bed.”

Camille became pale.

“I can explain,” she said, leaping up.

“I saw more than enough, Cami. I don’t think your version of an explanation would change that.”

“Just listen,” she said. “My parents set up the meeting with Benoit. They wanted me to be with someone French — to have completely French children.”

I looked at her, wondering how she expected me to sit there and listen to more.

“So, after they arranged it,” she added. “I’ve met him. And we hit it off, and our relationship developed.”

“I want a divorce. “Immediately,” I answered, not wanting to hear anything further.

Camille complained, accusing me of spying and invading her privacy. She threatened not to sign the divorce papers when they arrived, but I informed her there was no more love in our marriage after what she had done.

“Give me another chance,” she begged.

But I did not want any of it.

Camille opposed everything during the divorce process, from the house to spousal support, and even requested that I pay for her annual trips to France. I denied everything but the house. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I’m currently living in a bachelor pad closer to my office.

Yes, I’m heartbroken. But at least I’m no longer living a lie. And that is freeing.

I’m also grateful to Nolan for telling me the truth and supporting me during the divorce.

Now I’m curious whether Camille will wind up with Benoit – I’m sure her parents would be thrilled if she does.