I Thought My Husband Was at a Funeral—What I Discovered Changed Everything
When my husband, Jordan, said he needed to attend a childhood friend’s funeral, I didn’t think twice. After twenty-one years of marriage, trust felt like something we had long since earned. But that Saturday afternoon would unravel everything I believed about our life together.
I decided to spend the day at our quiet country house, a little retreat we had owned for five years. The drive there was peaceful—rolling hills, weathered barns, winding roads—but the moment I pulled into the gravel driveway, my heart skipped. Jordan’s car was parked beside the shed.
Confused, I went inside, but the house was empty. As I walked toward the back garden, a sharp chemical smell filled the air. Behind the shed, Jordan stood holding a gasoline can, pouring fuel over something on the ground. His expression was distant, his movements deliberate. When I called his name, he startled and quickly claimed he was burning weeds. But his voice trembled. Before I could react, he struck a match and dropped it.
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