Today is the one-year anniversary of the day you and your husband murdered your former lover and buried him in the yard. He was your nutritionist during your pregnancy and you initiated the affair in your fifth month. You've since blamed your hormones.
For about a month and a half, those twice-weekly appointments were all you could look forward to. Your husband was not interested in anything physical while you were carrying his child, and he left you alone most of the time since he was throwing himself as much as he could into his work so as to take a lot of time off when the baby arrived.
In about the seventh month you were very big and you and the nutritionist cooled off, which is when things got weird. He turned from the seducer to the nurturer. His questions moved from the subject of your diet and your physical well-being to plans for the baby. He wanted to know if you had private or public schools picked out and what religion the baby would be raised. If he didn't like your decision, he tried to talk you out of it.
Your husband learned about the affair on the day little Frankie was born. Your nutritionist appeared at the hospital offering to assist in the delivery. When he was told he wasn't needed, he found himself some scrubs and just walked into the delivery room to stand by your bed. When he edged near you to hold your head and coach you, the doctor asked, "Who is this? Who are you?"
That's when your husband looked in your eyes and understood what had transpired. He grabbed the nutritionist by the throat and dragged him into the hallway, threatening to kill him if he ever shows his face again.
It wasn't really a threat. Your husband had immediately decided the nutritionist was going to die. The nutritionist had made love to you while you were carrying your husband's baby. You know your husband and you know he could never allow a man like that to live.
The nutritionist made it easy. His obsession over you brought him to your house several nights a week. He'd just stand outside watching the windows for signs of you holding your child, the child he was convinced he had fathered. He sent letters and made phone calls always demanding you let him see his son. So your husband set a trap. He had you invite the nutritionist in and once he had stepped on the sheet of plastic covering the living room floor, your husband stepped from the corner and drove a hammer into the nutritionist's skull.
You and your husband buried him in the backyard, and within a day the wall surrounding your yard was covered in beautiful, emerald green ivy. Inexplicably, white roses sprouted from the stems in places. You took one of the roses to a botanist, and he claimed that it was not exactly a rose, that he couldn't classify it. It was a flower that given its makeup should not be able to survive in your climate. You did not sleep with the botanist.
But you did conclude that the nutritionist was a saint of some kind, perhaps a son of God. And you and your husband had killed him. You've drained your bank accounts and quit your jobs in order to devote your life to honoring the nutritionist's memory. Your yard is the church where dozens of believers come to worship, more and more each week. They worship your son as well, since he is the son of the nutritionist. Yes, your husband conceived Frankie with you, but the nutritionist declared that Frankie was his. It must be so.
Today is the anniversary of the Nutritionist's death. The yard will be full from morning to night. You'll need to have snacks ready. Some vegetables and dip can go a long way.
Happy The Ivy Began To Climb On The Day That He Died Day!