My Husband Only Spoke Spanish with His Parents—Until a Friend Revealed the Truth

My Spanish Husband Always Spoke His Native Language with His Parents—Until My Friend Uncovered His Biggest Lie

Before my buddy, who speaks Spanish fluently, joined us for dinner, I never gave the language barrier much thought when my Spanish husband spoke to his parents. She grabbed my arm halfway through the dinner, her horrified eyes wide. “You should speak with your spouse. At this moment.”

While I sat in a charming café, writing down my views about Barcelona, the aroma of freshly brewed espresso and warm churros filled the air.

My scrawling was stopped by a rich, smooth voice. “Excuse me, but you look like someone who enjoys good conversation.”

A man with dark, expressive eyes and a relaxed smile was standing next to my table when I looked up. His words seemed poetic because of his Spanish accent.

Unable to resist grinning back, I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “And what does someone who enjoys good conversation look like?”

He pointed to my notebook. “While everyone else is shooting pictures, they write. They appear at ease when sitting by themselves. They take note of things. He held out his hand. “I’m Luis.”

“Emma,” I shook his hand in response.

A casual talk quickly developed into a passionate relationship. I sensed an unmistakable connection between us at the end of my journey. Something I didn’t anticipate discovering.

After I got back to the States, Luis and I stayed in contact. Daily calls replaced weekly ones. Visits resulted from calls. During Thanksgiving, he took a plane to visit me. Barcelona was where I spent Christmas.

By Valentine’s Day, I was equally excited and afraid of the plans we were making.

“I can’t keep saying goodbye to you at airports,” he said in a low voice and video chat one evening. “I just want to be where you are.”

It was difficult to fall in love across continents, but after a year, we decided to do it.

We were married in a modest ceremony after Luis relocated to the United States.

As soon as we said “I do,” we had aspirations of becoming parents. We made unsuccessful attempts for years. All of the pregnancy tests came back negative, but the physicians were unable to identify any issues.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be,” I muttered one evening.

Luis drew me into his embrace. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to, mi corazón.”

Although Luis was my pillar of support, I wasn’t always sure how I felt about his parents.

When they came to visit, they talked Spanish only, quickly and fluidly, so I was not included in conversations taking place in my own house.

His mother’s tight grins seldom reached her eyes, and she hardly looked at him.

His father only spoke to me in a formal and limited manner.

“Your parents don’t like me much, do they?” During one of their trips, I asked Luis.

“No, no,” he told me flatly. “They’re simply outdated. Don’t stress over it.

I persuaded myself that it was simply a matter of culture; perhaps they were bashful, and perhaps I ought to have put more effort into learning Spanish.

I dismissed the discomfort, not realizing there was more going on behind their separation.

When Patricia, my former college roommate, joined us for supper one evening, the tension peaked.

When we all sat down to eat together, neither Luis nor his parents realized Patricia spoke Spanish well.

As they engaged in their customary enthusiastic chat, I observed Patricia’s face change from one of courteous attention to one of perplexity to one that strikingly resembled dread.

Patricia’s fork clattered on her plate as she froze halfway through her dessert.

Her icy fingers clamped down on my arm beneath the table.

She muttered, “You need to talk to your husband,” in a scarcely audible voice. “Right now.”

My stomach turned over. There was a terrible problem.

“Why?” I scowled while attempting to keep my grin for the other visitors.

Patricia paused, looking quickly at Luis’s parents.

“Because his parents just asked when he’s finally going to tell you about his real wife.”

I gazed at her, unable to understand. “What?”

Patricia said, “His real wife,” repeatedly. “In Spain.”

That was nonsensical. His wife was me!

My heartbeat roared in my ears as the room seemed to tilt.

“Real wife?” I made myself laugh. “You must have misunderstood.”

Patricia didn’t flinch. “I didn’t.”

Luis was staring at us with a frozen expression as I looked up. He must have heard us because his jaw tightened and his face went pale.

As he set down his fork, his hands shook.

“What is she talking about?” My voice was as piercing as glass as I asked.

Luis’s parents ceased communicating. Over the table there was a deafening hush.

While whispering a silent prayer, his mother gripped her rosary.

His father shook his head and moaned.

“Luis?” When I said his name, my voice broke. “Why are you discussing a wife in Spain?”

Luis began, “Emma, please,” and reached across the table for my hand. “Let me explain—”

His mother interrupted him in a barrage of Spanish. Then, at last, her eyes met mine as she turned to face me.

It felt like a knife in my ribs when she said, “Hija,” the Spanish term for daughter. “I apologize. You deserve to know, but we never wanted to be the ones to inform you.”

When she said the words that rocked my world, I gasped.

Years ago, Luis wed someone else in Spain. Sofia is her name. Together, they are parents to two kids.

I blinked as I tried to take in what she had said.

A wife and kids? The thoughts kept bouncing around my brain, never settling into a coherent sentence.

Luis refused to look at me. His lack of response was sufficient confirmation.

The fact that he was married wasn’t the worst part. The way they phrased it, like if I had always been the intruder. I suppose I was, but I hadn’t recognized it.

“Children?” My voice broke.

Luis’s mom gave a nod. “Sí. Two small ones. He explained to Sofia that he had been traveling for work for years. He was here with you, even though she assumed he was on a business trip.

It was a lie, my whole marriage. Every “I love you,” every vow, every night of tears over our infertility… The betrayal was not as scorching as the rage that swelled in my throat.

“How could you?” I pushed away from the table and murmured.

Luis took hold of my hand. “Mi amor, listen to me—”

“How long?” I interrupted him.

In a whisper, his father said, “Ocho años.”

Eight years. The ultimate blow was the realization that we had been married for three years. When we first met, he was married to Sofia.

Luis said, “I can explain—” First.

“No,” I yanked my hand away and snapped. “You can pack your things.”

I walked out of the dining room, Luis at my heels. “Emma, please, just give me five minutes—”

I spun around.

“To clarify precisely what? How did you manage to marry two women? How come you have kids that you haven’t mentioned to me? How come you allowed me to cry every month since you already had two children and we were unable to conceive?”

“It’s complicated—”

“No,” I interrupted him once more. “It’s easy. You are dishonest. You are dishonest. And you’re homeless at the moment.”

I wasn’t finished, though.

Everything Luis owned, including his car, our lease, and our combined bank accounts, was in my name. He had demanded it, saying his immigration status made it easier.

It dawned on me that I could salvage something from this horror.

When Luis returned to the flat two days later to get his belongings, he discovered nothing. No money in our combined bank accounts. Everything had been moved to a new account that was only in my name. His vehicle? taken back. Donated his clothes?

He was standing in the center of our flat, gazing at the empty closet that once held his belongings.

He said, “You can’t do this,” in a hollow voice.

“I just did,” was my response. “And that’s just the beginning.”

I wasn’t only seeking retribution for myself. Justice was at issue here. I was able to locate Sofia on social media with Patricia’s assistance. I plucked up the confidence to approach her.

She was also unaware of me. She was as taken by surprise, and her communications to me were as full of hurt and anger as mine were. We chose to hold Luis accountable rather than turn on one another.

He was sued by both of us for fraud and bigamy. After looking into his visa, the authorities discovered that he had misrepresented his marital status. Through the court case, his company learned of his deceit.

Luis lost his house, his job, and his reputation. His two houses.

Sofia took full custody of their children and left him.

His name was dragged through the court systems of two nations.

Worst of all, he was ashamed and broke and had nowhere to go but back to his parents’ home in Spain.

Despite their early involvement, his parents were unable to forgive him for the embarrassment he had caused them.

Months later, at the same café where I had first met Luis, Patricia and I raised our sangria glasses.

She remarked, “To new beginnings,”

“To karma,” I changed.

“Revenge is best served cold,” she continued, clinking her glass against mine.

I swirled my drink and grinned. “Or garnished with his last paycheck.”

My future would not be seized by Luis, even though he had stolen years of my life. Once more, that was mine.