From the birds and the bees, to family trees.: The wife is always the last person to find out

The wife is always the last person to find out
3 November 2012

I have been very happily married now for over 16 years. And my Grantie and I have been a couple for twenty two and half years. I met him two weeks after turning seventeen, in the January of my Matric year and I’ve never looked back. He is my best friend, my love, my sounding board and I trust him with everything that I have. The question of fidelity or lack thereof has never been an issue for us. Both of us are committed and faithfulness is a given. I would happily let him walk into a room full of gorgeous (even naked) women, and know that he would never wander. So, he might look – he’s not dead after all, but he would remain true to me. And I have never had cause to question my deep belief of this and my very sincere conviction that he is beyond reproach. Until…..

A few years ago, when my Grantie still worked in Stellenbosch, he left for work very early, as he always did. The kids were still quite little. Luke in Beaumont, Amber in Happy Days and Cole still home with me. And while the kids were getting ready for school in the morning, I decided to quickly put a load of washing in the machine. I worked my way through the laundry basket, separating whites from colours, as one always does. I pulled out one of Grant’s crumpled white work shirts, and when I shook it out, to add it to the white pile, the folds revealed…..a lacy black g-string pair of panties. A pair of panties that most definitely did not belong to me. I lowered myself down onto the loo seat and sat there dumbfounded. Speechless. My ears were ringing and zinging and I felt completely hollow on the inside. My legs were shaking, as were my hands. And to convince myself that my eyes were not deceiving me, I leaned forward and picked up the offending panties. How was this possible? Why didn’t I see the signs? Could I be this foolish? What if everyone knows and I’m a laughing stock? People are surely snickering behind my back. It could only be someone at work. And they’re all always so nice to me whenever I pop in to them. Was every single cliché true? Was the wife always the last person to know?

I got up on shaky legs, dimly aware of the kids around me. I slowly walked to the study, firmly closed the door behind me and phoned my man. On his cheery “Hello”, all I could manage was a “Is there something you want to tell me?”. To which he replied “no”. Speaking calmly, clearly and with impeccable diction, lest he misunderstand the question or the seriousness behind it, I repeated my question once more, “Is there something you want to tell me?”. And once again I got a firm “no”, followed shortly thereafter by a “why?”. I sat down on a chair in the study as my legs were still unsteady. And deciding to give him ample time and yet another opportunity to confess, I repeated my question again. If possible, speaking even slower, enunciating my words with care. This time, Grant had a little giggle in his voice and once again replied “No. Why?”. I explained to him what happened. How I was sorting out the washing and the panties were folded into his work shirt. He giggled some more and said he had no idea where they came from. And to be honest, he didn’t sound remorseful of concerned in the slightest. Quite bashful and unashamed, to be honest. He asked if they weren’t perhaps mine? I said no and put the phone down. Absolutely paralysed. And within about 3 seconds of putting the phone down, it rang again. Grant was on the other end of the line, and he thought he had a very reasonable explanation for the offending pair of panties. Had I not had swimming lessons with Cole the previous day? And don’t I actually get into the pool with Cole, necessitating the need to get dressed and undressed? Surely, when Cole and I got dressed again, I accidently picked up another mother’s pair of panties and stuffed them into our swimming bag. Now if possible, this very “logical” explanation worried me even more. Merely a minute has passed since our very first conversation had started. How was it even possible for Grant to think so fast and on his feet so quickly? This little excuse of his was far too convenient. I assured him that this was not possible and ended the conversation. I walked into the kitchen, got a pair of kitchen tongs, walked to the bathroom, picked the panties up with the tongs and inspected them closer. They were very lace and very black. Skimpy beyond belief. In fact, they looked pretty trashy and cheap to me and were sure to belong to a brazen hussy and a tart. The question though, was whether this was a serious affair. Did she blatantly throw herself at my man? Or was this even worse – true love? My world had come to an end. I dropped the panties again and this time, I picked up Grant’s work shirt. I scanned the collar for tell-tale lipstick marks. Checked his pants pockets. No joy. No clues. No nothing.

By this stage Grant phoned me again, with yet another very “plausible” excuse all lined up. Still he stuck to his guns. He’d never seen these supposed panties. He was not having an affair. No, it was not someone from work. I didn’t feel like talking to him. I switched on to autopilot and went about getting the kids ready for school. Grant phoned again and I never even bothered answering. It would be counter-productive. He claimed innocence yet I could not explain the presence of the offensive pair of tarty panties on my bathroom floor. They surely didn’t simply walk into my home on their own?

I gave up on the washing and took the kids to school. And when I was home once more, I called my domestic worker, Monica, over. Did she perhaps have a clue? Oh, yes she said, they came from behind Amber’s bed. And just like that the pieces of the puzzle all fell into place. Had my mom not spent a night and slept in Amber’s bed? Clearly they were her panties, and they must have fallen behind the bed, either when she got dressed, undressed or was busy with her bags. I had a little giggle of relief and did a small victory dance.

I immediately phoned my mom and asked her if she was perhaps missing a pair of black panties. Yes, indeed she was. Why do I ask? I told her then what had happened. And the two of us laughed like drains. It was very funny indeed. Joyful relief in my laughter for sure.

Very sheepishly I phoned my Grantie and explained the story to him. He did gloat quite a bit, truth be told. But that’s okay. I can live with it. I had to eat a bit of humble pie and apologised some more. And that night for supper, I made him one of his favourite meals. My non-cheating husband deserved it.

And all I can say is “Nice one, Mommy! I dig the panties. Such style. Such class. Such trashy blackness. You go girl!”.