It began as an ordinary evening — quiet, predictable, the kind of peaceful dullness that only comes from decades of marriage. The TV murmured in the corner, replaying an old sitcom they’d both seen countless times. The smell of roasted chicken lingered, and the kitchen clock ticked in its steady rhythm.
After twenty-three years together, Tom and his wife had mastered the language of silence. Words were optional; a glance, a sigh, or an eyebrow raise could say it all. That night, everything felt comfortably normal — until Tom decided to make a harmless little joke.
Leaning back in his chair, coffee mug in hand, he smirked and said, “You know, the guys at the club were saying the mailman’s slept with every woman on our street… except one.”
He paused, waiting for the laugh, expecting an eye roll or a playful jab. But his wife didn’t laugh. She didn’t even look up. Instead, she took a slow sip of her wine and said calmly, “Well, it must be that stuck-up Linda at number 14.”
The silence that followed hit like a thunderclap.
Tom blinked, unsure whether to laugh or panic. Was she joking? Was she serious? Her face was unreadable — calm, confident, maybe even a little smug.
That night, the silence between them wasn’t comforting anymore. It was heavy. Every sound — the ticking clock, the hum of the fridge — only made the tension louder.
Continue reading on next page…