He insisted his late nights were just work. I didnt believe him, so one evening, I followed him to an old house where I heard a woman sobbing.
“Again?” I asked, watching as he hurriedly tied his laces in the hallway.
He froze for just a fraction of a secondlong enough to confirm my suspicions.
“Lina, weve talked about this. Its an urgent jobI have to oversee it myself.”
His voice was calm, almost indifferent. He avoided my eyes, staring blankly at the wall instead, and that emptiness hurt worse than any argument.
The lie wasnt in his words but in the thick, sticky air between us, settling over the furniture, our belongings, over me.
I didnt reply. I just leaned against the doorframe and watched. Weeks ago, Id noticed a faint, unfamiliar scent on his jacketnot sharp like perfume, but subtle, sweet, like moisturiser.
When I asked, he joked it was because his office had so many women. But he worked for an IT firm where the only woman was the near-retirement accountant.
“Ill be latedont wait up,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
The metallic click of the lock sounded like a full stop in a sentence I was too afraid to finish.
Something inside me snapped. Not for the first time, but tonightfor good. Enough. Enough of this agony, enough pretending I believed his ridiculous excuses about work.
I threw on a coat over my t-shirt, shoved my feet into trainers, and grabbed my car keys without thinking. My hands moved on their own, driven by cold determination.
I slipped outside moments after him, spotting his car turning at the end of our lane.
I kept my distance, killing my headlights when he stopped at traffic lights. My heart hammered in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
He wasnt heading toward the city centre where his office was.
Instead, he took the old road leading to abandoned cottages on the outskirts. A place no one with any sense would go at night.
The tarmac gave way to gravel. My car jolted, branches scraping the sides. Finally, he stopped near a sagging fence, beyond which stood the silhouette of a two-storey housedark, derelict, with empty sockets where windows should be.
He got out without looking back and vanished into the shadows.
I parked farther away, cut the engine. Silence pressed in, broken only by rustling leaves.
I sat for minutes, steadying my trembling hands. What was he doing here? What was this place?
Stepping out, I tiptoed to the fence, careful not to crunch the gravel. A dim light glowed from an upstairs window.
Hed sworn his late nights were work. I hadnt believed him, and now, standing by that strangers fence, I knew my worst fears were justified. Because from that windowwhere sickly yellow light spilled outcame the unmistakable sound of a woman crying.
Quiet. Desperate. Full of pain.
It crawled under my skin, raising goosebumps. My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last, but all pointing to one thing: betrayal.
Banally cruel, humiliating betrayal, staged like some horror movie.
I circled the fence. The gate wasnt locked, just pushed shut. A rusted hinge groaned, and I frozebut the crying didnt falter.
The yard was waist-high with weeds. I waded through, thorns snagging my jeans, dampness seeping in.
Up close, the house was even more unsettlingpeeling paint, gaping windows, the stench of rot and damp earth.
I crept beneath the windows. Now I heard not just crying but his voicemy husbands.
“Shh, its alright. Im here now.”
His toneId never heard him speak to me like that. It was tender, patient, and it stole my breath.
This was worse than hearing passion. This was care. Deep, intimate care for another woman.
White-hot fury surged. I wanted to kick down the door, confront him, see herthe one whod stolen my husband.
But I held back. My feet rooted to the ground. If I stormed in, hed look at me with reproach, shield her. The thought made me sick.
I stumbled back into the dark. I had to leave.
The drive home felt endless. I arrived ten minutes before him, kicked off my wet shoes, and sat at the kitchen table in the dark.
When he walked in, he looked exhaustedgrey-faced, eyes shadowed. He flicked the light on and flinched when he saw me.
“Lina? Why are you up?”
“Waiting for you. From ‘work’.” I kept my voice flat.
He rubbed his forehead. “Rough night. Lets talk tomorrow.”
“No, Andrew. We talk now. I know where you were.”
His eyes lifted. No guiltjust bone-deep weariness and… fear. He was afraid.
“What do you know?” he whispered.
“I know about the old house. About the woman crying there. Thats your ‘urgent job’?”
His face went slack. He stared at me as if Id committed some unforgivable betrayal.
“You… followed me?”
“What choice did I have? Youve lied for months! Who is she, Andrew?”
I expected denial, anger, pleas for forgiveness. His answer stunned me.
“I cant tell you.”
“What do you mean, ‘cant’?”
“It means you have to trust me. Please, Linastay out of this. Save what we have left.”
No excuses. Just a wallthick, impenetrable, woven from secrecy and pain.
That night passed in icy silence. We lay side by side, strangers separated by his secret.
The next morning, I went back in daylight. The house looked even sadder. I pushed through the creaking gate and marched to the porch. The door was locked, but one window was loosely boarded.
Inside, dust and decay hung in the air. Furniture lay shrouded in sheets. Thena shuffle from upstairs.
The door to the lit room was ajar. A thin girl in an oversized jumper sat on the bed, brushing long dark hair. Her shoulders shook.
“Hi,” I said softly.
She startled, spinning around. Her eyeswide, frightenedwere exactly like Andrews.
My suspicions crumbled. This wasnt his lover.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Lina. Andrews wife.”
Footsteps pounded below.
“Annie? Ive got groceries!”
Andrew appeared, then froze. His face paled.
“Linawhat are youplease, just go!”
“No more secrets, Andrew. Tell me.”
He looked at her, then at me, and broke.
“This is Annie. My little sister.”
Five years ago, their mother had died suddenly in this house. Annie found her. It broke her.
Severe trauma, agoraphobia. She couldnt leave, couldnt bear the thought of hospitals. Hed hidden her here, carrying the burden alone.
“I was afraid youd leave if you knew,” he choked.
I knelt, taking his hands. All my anger felt petty now.
“You idiot. Were family.”
I glanced at Annie. For the first time in years, her frightened eyes held a flicker of hope.
I didnt know what lay aheadyears of struggle, tears, small victories. But in that dusty room, one thing was certain: the wall between us had fallen.
We wouldnt carry this burden alone anymore. Wed do it together.
The first days were fragile. Andrew watched me with wary gratitude. Annie stayed silent, observing from her corner.
I visited daily. First just leaving groceries. Then cooking. The smell of fresh bread pushed back the stale air.
She didnt leave her room, but I knew she noticed. One day, I left warm biscuits by her door. An hour later, the plate was empty.
Our first small victory.
When I suggested a therapist, Andrew balked. “We tried. It made her worse.”
“But that was five years ago! Medicine improves!”
Our first fight since the truth came out. Quiet but painful.
His fear ran as deep as her illness. Hed rather do nothing than risk hurting her again.
So I stopped arguing. Instead, I sat on the stairs and talkedabout my day, a kitten Id seen, how distracted Andrew was at work.
For days, I spoke to empty air. Then one evening, as I stood to leavea creak.
Her door was open a crack.
One eye peered outless frightened now. Curious.
I smiled. “See you tomorrow, Annie.”
In that moment, I knew: he was wrong.
Change wouldnt come by force. But with patience.
And warmthenough to melt even the thickest ice.
