**Diary Entry**
He kept insisting his late-night outings were for work. I didnt believe him, so one night I followed him to an old housewhere the sound of a womans weeping drifted out.
“Again?” I asked, staring not at him but at the way he hurriedly laced his shoes in the hallway.
He froze for a secondjust a fractionbut it was enough.
“Lena, weve talked about this. Urgent project. I have to oversee it personally.”
His voice was steady, almost indifferent. He avoided my gaze, and that blank stare at the wall hurt more than any argument.
The lie wasnt in his words; it was in the air between us. Thick, suffocating, settling on the furniture, on our things, on me.
I didnt answer. Just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching. Weeks ago, Id caught a faint, unfamiliar scent on his jacketnot the sharpness of perfume, but something sweet, subtle, like lotion.
When I asked, hed joked it was just the women in his office. But he worked in ITthe only woman there was the elderly accountant.
“Ill be late. Dont wait up,” he called as he left.
The metallic click of the lock sounded like a full stop to a sentence I was too afraid to finish.
Something inside me snapped. Not for the first timebut tonight, it was final.
Enough. Enough of this torment, enough pretending I believed his flimsy excuses.
I threw my coat over my T-shirt, shoved my feet into trainers, and grabbed my car keys without thinking. My hands moved on their own, obeying cold determination.
I slipped out minutes after him. His car was just turning the corner. I kept my distance, flicking off my headlights when he stopped at traffic signals. My heart hammered in my throat.
He wasnt heading toward the city centre, where his office was.
He turned onto an old road leading to abandoned cottages on the outskirts. A place no sane person would go at night.
The tarmac gave way to gravel. My car jolted, branches scraping the sides. Finally, his car stopped by a crooked fence, beyond which stood the silhouette of a two-storey house. Dark, derelict, with empty windows like hollow eyes.
He got out without looking back and vanished into the shadows.
I parked further away, turned off the engine. Silence pressed in, broken only by the rustle of leaves.
I sat there, trembling. Why was he here? What was this place?
Stepping out, I tiptoed to the fence, careful not to crunch the gravel. A dim light flickered in an upstairs window.
Id followed him here, listening to his lies about work.
And now, standing by that strangers fence, I realised how right my worst suspicions had been. Because from that windowwhere sickly yellow light spilled outcame the unmistakable sound of a woman crying.
Soft. Desperate. Heartbreaking.
The kind of sob that crawled under your skin, raising goosebumps.
My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the lastbut they all led to one thing: betrayal.
Pathetic, humiliating betrayal, set in some horror-film nightmare.
I pushed past the gate. The hinges screamed, but the crying didnt stop.
The garden was overgrown, weeds up to my waist. I fought through them, thorns snagging my jeans, dampness seeping in.
The house looked even worse up close. Peeling paint, broken windows, the stench of rot and damp earth.
I crept to the window. Now I could hear not just the cryingbut Andrews voice. *My* husbands voice.
“Shh, its alright,” he murmured. “Im here now.”
His tonegentle, patientwas something hed never used with me. It stole my breath.
This was worse than if Id heard passion. This was *care*. Deep, intimate care for another woman.
Rage burned through me. I wanted to kick down that door, see the truth in his lying eyes.
But I stilled. Imagined bursting in, screamingonly for him to shield *her*. The thought made me sick.
I stumbled back, into the dark. I had to leave.
The drive home felt endless. I got back minutes before him, kicked off my wet shoes, and sat in the dark kitchen.
When he walked in, he looked exhausted. Grey-faced, shadows under his eyes. He flicked on the lightthen flinched when he saw me.
“Lena? Why are you up?”
“Waiting for you. From *work*.” I kept my voice flat.
He rubbed his temples. “Long night. Lets talk tomorrow.”
“No. We talk *now*. I know where you were.”
He looked up. No guiltjust exhaustion. And *fear*.
“What do you know?”
“I know about the old house. About the woman who cries there. Is *that* your emergency?”
His face went slack. He stared at me like *Id* betrayed *him*.
“Youyou *followed* me?”
“What choice did I have? Youve been lying for *months*! Who is she, Andrew?”
I braced for denial, anger, pleas. But his answer shattered me.
“I cant tell you.”
“What do you mean *cant*?” My voice cracked.
“It means you have to trust me. Please, Lenastay out of this. Save what we have left.”
No excuses. Just a wall. A thick, impenetrable wall of secrets and pain.
That night, we lay side by side in bed, miles apart.
The next day, I went back.
The house looked even more forlorn in daylight. The gate creaked as I pushed through.
The door was locked, but one window was loose. I squeezed inside.
Dust and decay filled the air. Sheets covered the furniture like shrouds.
A rustle came from upstairs.
I climbed the creaking steps. The door to the lit room was ajar.
A thin girl sat on the bed, back to me, brushing dark hair. Her shoulders shook.
This was her. The one who cried at night.
“Hi,” I said softly.
She turnedand my suspicions crumbled.
Her eyes*Andrews* eyeswidened in fear.
“Who are you?”
“Lena. Andrews wife.”
The front door slammed.
“Anna? Where are you? I brought food!”
Andrew appearedthen froze when he saw me.
“Lenawhat are you*please*, go!”
“No.” I looked at the girl. “No more secrets, Andrew. *Talk*.”
He sank onto the bed, face in his hands.
“This is Anna. My little sister.”
His words came in broken fragments. Five years ago, their mother had died suddenlyin this house. Anna had found her.
The trauma broke her. Agoraphobia. She couldnt leavenot without hysterics.
Hed tried doctors, therapy. Nothing worked. So he hid her. Brought food, cleaned, talked for hours. Carried the weight alone, torn between his secret and our life.
“I was afraid to tell you,” he whispered. “Thought youd leave. I couldnt lose you too.”
I knelt, taking his hands. All my anger felt small.
“You idiot. Were *family*.”
I looked at Anna. For the first time in years, curiosity flickered in her eyes.
I didnt know what came nextyears of struggle, tears, small victories.
But in that dusty room, I knew one thing:
The wall between us had fallen.
And we wouldnt carry this weight alone.
Wed do it together.
—
The first days were like walking on ice.
Andrew watched me, grateful but wary. Anna stayed silent, eyeing me like a frightened animal.
I came every day. First, just leaving groceries. Then cooking. The smell of fresh bread pushed back the musty air.
Anna never left her roombut one day, I left a plate of warm biscuits by her door.
An hour later, it was empty.
Our first tiny victory.
Then I found a therapistspecialised in trauma.
Andrew balked. “No. We tried. It only hurts her more.”
“But that was *years* ago! Medicine changes! We cant just wait for a miracle!”
“Im not waiting for a miracle!” His voice rose. “Im trying not to *break* her further! You didnt see her then. You dont *know*.”
Our first fight since the truth.
I realisedhis fear was as deep as her illness.
The next day, I sat on the stairs and just *talked*.
“Anna? Its Lena. I wont come up. Just sitting here.”
I told her about my day. A stray kitten. A film. Andrew forgetting his keys.
I spoke to the silenceexpecting no reply.
Then, one dayas I turned to leavea faint
