I saw my husband, John Sullivan, at a bar, three months after he'd supposedly gone missing in a skiing accident.

With his arm around that so-called girl buddy, he was laughing out loud. "Thank God for your idea. I almost forgot what freedom felt like."

His buddies kept raising their glasses, cheering him on and asking when he'd show up.

He looked down and thought for a moment. "Maybe in a week. I'll show up once she's gone totally crazy looking for me."

I stood in the shadows, watching him bask in his freedom. Then I called a friend who worked at the county clerk's office.

"I've decided to cancel John's identity record."

"Not looking for him anymore?" my friend asked, hesitating.

I looked over at John, who was whispering to Nancy Shawn, my eyes stinging. My voice caught. "He can't be found."

If someone wants to stay hidden, what's the point in finding them anyway?

I hung up and went back to the private room.

My best friend saw my face and shoved a drink into my hand.

"Wennie, John's been missing for three months. There's almost no chance he's alive. You need to move on."

I looked down at the colorful drink, then knocked it back.

The burn hit hard and brought tears to my eyes. I blinked fast, holding back the ache. "Would someone really fake their disappearance just to fool their wife?"

She gave me a hard stare. "What the hell are you saying? Anyone who'd do that is trash. Might as well be dead."

I wiped my tears and grabbed my purse from the couch.

"You're right. It's time I let John go."

Then I turned and left, heading home.

The house was as quiet as always. I'd grown to fear the silence over the past three months. Every time I came home, I'd turn on all the lights, brew the coffee he liked, and leave it on the table, pretending he was still here.

I didn't get it. If he didn't want to be with me anymore, he could've just divorced me. Why fake a skiing accident and go missing?

Sitting on the couch, I picked up the figurines of us on the table.

Back then, John leaned against me, smiling as he pointed at them. "When I'm not around, let these two keep you company."

That voice from the past overlapped with what I heard in the bar today—his irritated tone.

"Wennie used to be sweet and gentle. But after we got married, I don't know what happened—she got so clingy. Faking my death is kind of a lesson for her. Maybe next time she won't be so attached."

Next to him, Nancy poured him another drink. "See how good I am? We've been friends for years, and I never cling to you."

"Right. You're my best buddy."

They talked like buddies, but their legs were tangled together.

Just thinking about it made me sick.

I tossed the figurines into the trash and grabbed my phone. I sent out a broadcast message.

"John passed away three months ago. The funeral is to be held next week."

Almost instantly, his so-called buddies started flooding me with messages.

"He's not even found yet. How can you hold a funeral?"

"Wennie Castillo, are you insane? John's not dead!"

"If he comes back and sees his own funeral, he'll blow up! Are you sure you want to make him mad?"

I ignored the first few and only replied to the last one.

"He's dead. What's there to be mad about?"

I put down my phone and started packing up John's things.

For the past three months, I'd barely been home—most of my time was spent searching for him in that snowy mountain town.

The bedroom looked pretty much the same.

But when I opened the closet, I froze.

More than half his clothes were gone. The ones left were for the wrong season.

My tears fell instantly, and I let out a bitter laugh.

I'd been living up on that mountain, desperate to find him. Only came home when I really couldn't take it anymore.

But during those same days—while I was falling apart—John had quietly come home more than once just to take his stuff.

I pulled up the home security footage and fast-forwarded through the past month.

Early in the month, John walked in with his arm around Nancy. Two hours later, he left with a pile of clothes.

Mid-month, he carried her in bridal style into the house. They didn't leave until the next morning.

Just two nights ago, they slipped in under the cover of darkness and left yesterday at dawn.

All those times, I'd been in another city, desperately searching for him.

My tears kept falling as I watched—not for John, but for myself.

I gave everything for someone this disgusting.

He wasn't worth it!

While I was losing sleep, worrying if he was alive or dead, he was in my house, with her. Maybe even in my bed.

I gripped the edge of the table, trying not to sob until I couldn't breathe.

My phone, tossed in the living room, started ringing.

I didn't want to answer, but whoever it was kept calling, over and over.

I took a deep breath and walked over.

The caller ID made me pause. I picked it up fast. "What's wrong, Harvey?"

"John's not dead."

Right after, he sent me a video.

I opened it. In the clip, John and Nancy were linking arms, sipping wine like newlyweds, their eyes locked like no one else existed.

My breath caught. My hand shook as I whispered, voice trembling, "I know he's not dead."

He was silent for a beat, then chuckled.

"And you're still throwing him a funeral?"

"Everyone told me he was dead. I believed them. So yeah—I'm giving him a funeral."

Harvey Sullivan paused. "Widowed, huh?"

I replied with a soft "Yeah."

Harvey was John's uncle by title, no blood relation. We barely crossed paths.

He was the first to tell me John wasn't really dead, and I owed him for that.

"Harvey, if you're free, you can come pay respects in seven days."

"I will."

Right after, he sent me a video.

Someone besides John held up a phone to show him something. He suddenly smashed his wine glass.

Nancy, beside him, flinched. She placed a hand on his chest, saying something to calm him down.

The bar was noisy—I couldn't hear.

But I saw his face soften, even bury into her shoulder.

He must've seen the broadcast message I sent and lost it. I just didn't expect a few words from Nancy could calm him down so easily.

Back then, whenever he got mad at me, he'd make me reflect all night and apologize, and only then might he forgive me.

I shut my stinging eyes and saved both videos.

Just as I was about to put down my phone, Nancy called.

I answered. Music blared in my ear.

She yelled, "Wennie, are you holding a funeral for John? Are you out of your mind?

"I'm telling you, cancel it! Or you'll be dead when John gets back!"

I hung up mid-sentence, grabbed a blanket, curled up on the couch, and slept.

It was the best sleep I've had in three months.

The next morning, I brought my ID and canceled John's identity record.

After that, I went to Nancy's place.

The door stayed shut. I rang again and again until she finally opened.

She stood in a thin silk robe, leaning on the doorframe, traces of intimacy running from her neck downward.

"Oh, it's you. What do you want?"

I glanced from her neck to her face and met her mocking gaze.

"I want you at John's funeral. You were his close friend, after all."

She rolled her eyes, voice sharp. "Wennie, you're his wife! He's not dead—there's no body. You're not even looking for him, and you're holding a funeral?

"What if he's still alive? Are you cursing him to die? What kind of wife does that?"

I pulled out the death certificate I'd just gotten and laughed softly. "Three months buried in snow. I couldn't find him. He's officially declared dead.

"Weren't you the ones who told me to move on?"

When the bad news came, I fainted on the spot.

Woke up the next morning with all his so-called buddies gathered around my bed.

"Wennie, the place where John went missing is rough. Might be best to let go."

"Yeah, it's way too dangerous. Better not go."

I forced myself up, bought a ticket, hired a rescue team, and went straight into the mountains.

Fifteen days. No sleep. Searching nonstop.

Back then, I didn't notice—none of those buddies had even a trace of worry in their eyes. Only amusement.

Right then, a loud bang came from inside Nancy's room.

Her face changed. She glared. "Wennie, don't pull any stunts! John won't let you off when he's back!"

I ignored her, like last night.

She shot me a death glare and slammed the door in my face.

The shouting inside the room reached my ears.

John must've heard his identity record was canceled—he finally snapped.

But there was no way I was letting him find me.

He disappeared for three months. A few days of my vanishing wasn't too much to ask.

I grabbed my pre-packed suitcase and asked my best friend to book a hotel under her ID, seven days.

I spent those days either buying funeral supplies or hiding in that hotel.

When my best friend came to visit, she looked gleeful.

"Word is someone's gone mad looking for you. About to tear all of Los Angeles apart."

I glanced at the missing person ad on TV and smirked. "So what if he does? If I don't want to be found, he won't find me. Didn't he say back then he'd only show up after I'd lost my mind searching? What, can't hold back now?"

"Serves him right! I swear, what kind of monster even does that?"

She kept cursing, getting more worked up. I quickly stopped her. "Don't. Today's my husband's funeral. I should be grieving."

I pulled out my makeup bag, covered my flushed skin with foundation, and painted on a look of grief.

After confirming with her that I looked convincingly wrecked, we headed to the venue together.

On the way, I handed her a USB with the video proof that John was alive. I told her when to play it—she'd follow my signal.

Only after everything was in place did I send out the funeral location to everyone.

Harvey arrived first, dressed in a black suit. He walked straight up to me, took the ribbon, and pinned it on his chest, murmuring a solemn, "My condolences."

Next came a stream of clueless relatives and friends.

Their grief was real. My heart ached just watching.

"John, you faked your disappearance. Do you know how many people you hurt?

"Today, you'll pay for it—bit by bit," I said inwardly.

Then came his so-called buddies.

Each one looked worse than the last. Their hands were shaking as they took the ribbons from me.

Finally, one of them pulled me aside.

"Wennie! You have to stop this! John's not dead! He's been losing his mind looking for you! Haven't you seen the missing person ads on TV?"

I blinked slowly and forced out two tears.

"Don't comfort me. I know—Nancy posted that missing person ad.

"The dead don't come back. I'm done hoping he's alive."

He tried to say something else, but I shot my best friend a look. She quickly pulled him to a seat.

Once the place was full, I stepped up to the mic.

"Thank you all for coming to my late husband's funeral..."

Before I could finish, a scream cut through the air.

"Wennie! Are you insane? I told you John isn't dead!"

Nancy stood at the entrance, eyes sharp and hateful.

"Are you even really his wife? He's only been missing for three months! No body, no nothing—and you're holding a funeral? I won't allow it!"

I looked behind her. No sign of John.

Even now, he wouldn't show himself.

I looked down at her, voice cold. "You won't allow it? Who are you to say that? You said it yourself—I'm his wife."

Her eyes widened, tears welling up. "How can you be so cruel? John loved you so much, and you just declared him dead like it's nothing?

"What if he's still alive?"

My eyes dropped to the marks still visible on her neck. I smiled and said, "Even if he is, a cheating man isn't worth my time."

With that, I had someone pull her aside and resume the funeral.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, a disheveled, thin man appeared at the door.

He choked out, "I'm not dead, honey. I'm back."