For years, the first Saturday of every month had its own rhythm in our marriage. My husband would linger over his second cup of coffee, sunlight catching the steam, before kissing me goodbye with a casual, “I’m running a few errands.” He’d return hours later with groceries, a warm loaf of bread, and that calm, contented smile. Trust in our home was not a frantic investigation; it was a quiet, steady rhythm.
But one Saturday, something felt different. Maybe it was the air or maybe my own restlessness. I suggested, lightly, that I come along. His reaction was immediate tension—his posture stiffened, his eyes darted, and his excuse about visiting a relative who “wouldn’t be comfortable” felt off, delivered with a tremor I hadn’t seen before. That day, our peaceful rhythm cracked.
By the next first Saturday, unease had grown into suspicion. When he left, I followed him. Three minutes, I told myself. But he didn’t go to familiar stores or neighborhoods. Instead, he drove into a forgotten part of the city, streets cracked and deserted, streetlights leaning like tired sentinels. Finally, he stopped at a weathered two-story house with peeling paint and a sagging porch.
Inside, the scene shattered every dark scenario my mind had conjured. There was no affair, no hidden vice, no betrayal. Instead, the room was orderly, calm, faintly scented with lavender and antiseptic. An elderly woman sat in a high-backed chair, dignity etched into every wrinkle, surrounded by neatly stacked supplies. My husband stood frozen, a box of medication in hand.
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