I used to believe my marriage was unshakable, built on trust and love. Tom and I lived what many would call a picture-perfect life in the old family home I’d inherited from my grandmother. The ivy-covered porch, creaking hardwood floors, and lavender-filled garden made it feel like a place where memories could grow for decades. We’d been married for three years, and Tom often hinted at the future we might share—kids, family holidays, maybe even another generation running through those same halls. Sometimes, I’d catch him searching for baby names on his laptop when he thought I wasn’t looking. My heart swelled with hope every time.
That’s why what I discovered last weekend shook me to my core.
I had gone to visit my sister Emma in Chicago for a long weekend. Tom expected me back Sunday night, but by Saturday afternoon, homesickness hit me hard. I missed the comfort of my own bed, the creaks of our house settling at night, and above all, I missed Tom. Over lunch, I told Emma I was heading home early. She teased me, saying we were “disgustingly sweet,” and urged me to go.
The four-hour drive felt longer than usual, but when I finally pulled into our driveway around 9 p.m., something felt off immediately. The house was silent…
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