The One.

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” - Søren Kierkegaard

Suburbia.

Where housewives fake serene smiles and husbands feign loyal lies.

Each front yard hosts an array of beautifully pruned petunias, redolent roses and lazy lavender. Crisp viridescent grass sits sharp and trimmed, while shaped bushes resemble perfect spheres or other four-dimensional formations.

If you think you’ve stepped into an exquisitely flawless community. Where nothing ever happens, where everyone knows each other and your business becomes your neighbor’s business, well, you would be incorrect.

Venturing closer to those white-picket fenced homes, complete with eerie water features and delicately manicured lawns, you might realize that everyone harbors a secret of their own.

For Katie, it’s the fact that her husband goes to work every morning, yet arrives home in the evening wearing a newly ironed shirt, failing to remove the smudged lipstick that stains his starched collar.

Morgan’s life could also be considered perfect. A loyal husband, two obscenely well-behaved children. Nothing is amiss in her life. But her secret is as simple as the fact that the days she attends the gym, she is really getting liposuction, or botox, or whatever body part she feels will make her feel younger and thus, more attractive.

And if you have any interest in the neighbor next door, who claims her life is the epitome of unblemished. You will see that Sarah’s son bears varying features from that of her husband.

These are just a few of the lives I have come to understand in the six years of living here in Blandstown.

Nothing is what it seems, and typically, everything is what you believe.

And when such an inexplicable occurrence such as the disappearance of a person from the superlative community rocks the foundations of this true to name suburb, bland is the last word you would use.

Because nothing happens in this place. This plain as day suburban town has become the place of the mysterious disappearance.

A phenomenon.

It has been six months since my husband went missing.

Six months since he went to work one day and never came home.

Half a year has passed, since I looked into those blue eyes and brushed my fingers through his sandy blonde hair, windswept in its glorious design.

No evidence can provide an explanation as to what happened to him.

No question can be answered as to where he went.

I was left with the dull ache of incomprehensible grief.

Within the first few heart wrenching days after Andrew’s disappearance, police swarmed. Of course they did. It was called Blandstown for a reason.

But as the news reported the obscure vanishing of my husband, the influx of neighbors offering their loose gestures of kindness in the form of precooked meals increased. As did the lending of an ear to talk, a shoulder to lean on, or even a hand to hold.

Three days turned into weeks. Where search parties buzzed in uniformed groups. Interviews tightened their hold on the residents of this bland community.

Eventually, those weeks turned into months. Where updates from the local police station dwindled and acquainting smiles became those of sympathy. Condolences became empty apologies, and familiar faces became strangers.

People in this neighborhood pretend to understand the emotions that wracked me. They tried to empathize with the unknown, the unfamiliar. But no one understands.

Missing posters have been ripped down, and those that haven’t, have since withered away against rotten bulletin boards. The image of my husband, inked into paper, melts away with the weather. Rain stains the ‘Have you seen…’ signs, the ink distorting and separating into a multitude of colors.

Despite the dissolution, every time I pass one of those posters, I know it’s him. Underneath the rusted pins, laminated paper and dividing inks, it’s his face. And the emptiness hollows like a void; a black hole that sucks away the sadness and guilt.

The neighborhood is so obviously in a state of shock. Things like this never happen in this suburban paradise. People didn’t just go missing. They didn’t just disappear.

Andrew and I moved here specifically for the tranquility and simplicity. Blandstown isn’t a gated community.It isn’t protected by security or barriers or patrolling cars. It doesn’t need to be. It’s just, simply simple.

Yard gatherings have bleakened, street parties are unlivened, and neighborhood barbecues have subsequently fizzled.

It’s amazing what one person can take with them when they vanish without a trace, without a note, without a word.

Yet suspicion has never been in the forefront of anyone’s minds.

Andrew’s disappearance has left a gaping void in the community. Yet somehow, inexplicably, Katie’s husband now returns from work with the same shirt as the morning, minus the stains of unbridled disloyalty.

Morgan now boasts the latest gymwear, shaking a protein drink before she heads out on her morning jog.

Whatever Andrew took with him when he left, we gained a sense of fear that stirred amongst those who were guilty.

And now, as I kneel down, to prune the ruby red roses, my mind drifts back to moments of Andrew and I.

Six months is not a long time to grieve, but it is just enough to move on from what you can’t explain, yet I try with infinite finesse.

Every now and then, my attention divides and I think about Andrew. He’s always there, lingering in the back of my mind.

Do I miss Andrew?

I ask that question every day. And everyday, I answer it with a new thought.

Today, I miss the way he would poke fun at my attempts to garden. Sure, he would have to drag the lawn mower around for me, but I’ve mastered that skill now. He might’ve had to lend me a hand with disposing the weeds and rubble, but Gerry from across the street helps with that.

That isn’t really an answer to the question. None of my thoughts have been, because deep down, I resent the fact that I might not miss Andrew at all.

What kind of wife does that make me?

One of the other questions that passes through my mind on a daily basis.

No matter what I think, though. Those sure and questionable thoughts never leave my lips. And that is how secrets stay.