I met Eric on a dating app in early 2018 when I was living in New York. He was handsome, talkative and interesting. I was falling for him – but there was something he needed to know. In 2015, I’d been in love with a guy called Mike. On my 30th birthday, my parents threw me a party at their house. Everyone was having a great time until I heard my brother scream Mike’s name. As I ran towards the noise, I saw Mike on the ground by my parents’ pool. He’d slipped into the water and wasn’t breathing. I frantically tried to do CPR on him, but he remained unconscious.
At the hospital, I was told that Mike wouldn’t ever wake up. No one knows how he got hurt. He broke some bones in his back, and had a brain injury, but we don’t know how that happened.
Six days after my birthday, I held Mike’s hand while the life-support machine was turned off. My shock and grief were unbearable.
It was awful to relive it all when I told Eric. But if we were to have a future, it had to be based on total honesty. Eric was wonderful. The way he listened made me feel safe. Five months later, we moved in together. When he proposed in Central Park in December 2019, it felt like a fairytale. I’d found love again.
We prepared to marry in August 2020. At dinner with friends and family the night before our wedding, Eric made a speech about how much he loved me. Afterwards, I kissed him goodnight and went to my hotel room. Eric was staying with his brother.
The next morning, I was woken up by the telephone. I heard my mom’s voice. “Kaitlin,” she said, sounding strange. “You have to come down to the lobby.” Dread washed over me. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” It seemed an age before she replied. “Eric died early this morning.”
I remember what came next in snapshots. Collapsing on the bed and struggling to breathe. Mom coming to the door and almost carrying me back to her house.
A postmortem found that Eric had died of a heart attack at 33, because of a condition no one knew about. My shock and heartbreak were profound. How could I possibly be at Eric’s funeral when we should be on our honeymoon?
As the years passed, I learned to manage my grief. My unworn wedding dress still hung in my wardrobe, but I wore my ring on special occasions. It felt as if I was honouring Eric. I was sure that’s where our story would end – with an acceptance of my loss, and a celebration of the wonderful man he was. But there was a twist.
Last year on 20 November – which was Eric’s birthday – I was on Instagram when I saw a post commemorating someone who had died, and who had the same last name and birthday as Eric. The poster said she had been with him on his last birthday.
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“What a bizarre coincidence,” I thought, particularly because the post was from someone who’d heard about my story years before and reached out. We’d been in sporadic contact ever since. I clicked on her Instagram story, which revealed that her post was actually about Eric. I messaged to ask her to explain. Two hours later, I had my answer – with screenshots. She met Eric on a dating app in March 2019. They started seeing each other, and were still talking 15 days before our wedding. Seeing the messages he’d sent her as we’d sat together at home, I felt sick.
It was like I was trapped in a movie, one with a hideous plot twist. The relationship I thought I’d had; the man I’d grieved for – the whole thing was a lie. I was desperate for everyone to share my outrage, but many people didn’t want to know. When someone dies, people don’t want to hear the bad things they did. “He loved you,” I heard over and over. But that wasn’t love.
I’m working on accepting that I will never know how Eric felt about me. I don’t know what his version of love was, but he knew I wouldn’t accept it. He’s like a stranger to me now. I’m left with a kind of anger, because I can’t express to Eric how he’s made me feel. It’s fury from so many wasted years.
In the months since, I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety, and I’m in therapy. But I want to speak about it and I’m glad I know the truth. I can now date without being haunted by the shadow of my “perfect” man. In that sense, I am now free.
As told to Kate Graham
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