He insisted his late-night absences were for work, but I never believed him. One evening, I followed him to an old house where the sound of a womans weeping drifted through the air.
“Again?” I asked, staring not at him but at the hurried way he laced his boots in the hallway.
He froze for just a fraction of a secondlong enough.
“Lena, weve talked about this. Its urgent work. I have to oversee it myself.”
His voice was steady, almost indifferent. He avoided my gaze, and that hollow stare at the opposite wall cut deeper than any argument.
The lie wasnt in his words but in the air between usthick, clinging, settling on the furniture, our belongings, on me.
I said nothing. Just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching. Weeks ago, Id caught a faint, unfamiliar scent on his jacket. Not sharp like perfume, but soft, almost sweetlike skincare lotion. When I asked, he brushed it off, joking that his office was full of women. But he worked in IT, where the only woman was the sixty-year-old accountant.
“Dont wait up,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
The metallic click of the lock sounded like a full stop to a sentence I was afraid to finish.
Something inside me snapped. Not for the first time, but tonightfinallyId had enough. Enough of the torment, enough of pretending to believe his flimsy excuses.
I threw my coat over my nightshirt, shoved my feet into trainers, and grabbed my car keys without thinking. My hands moved on their own, driven by cold resolve.
I slipped out moments after him. His car was just turning at the end of our lane. I kept my distance, dimming my headlights when he stopped at traffic signals. My heart hammered in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
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 juddered, branches scraping the sides. Finally, his car stopped near a sagging fence, beyond which loomed the silhouette of a two-storey house. Dark, derelict, with empty eye sockets where windows should have been.
He got out without looking back and vanished into the shadows.
I parked further away, killing the engine. The silence was brittle, broken only by the whisper of leaves. I sat there for minutes, trying to steady my shaking hands. Why was he here? What was this place?
Stepping out, I tiptoed toward the fence, careful not to crunch the gravel. A dim light glowed from an upstairs window.
And thenthere it was. The sound Id dreaded. From that window, where the sickly yellow light spilled out, came the unmistakable sound of a womans weeping.
Quiet, broken, despairing.
It crawled under my skin, raising gooseflesh. The kind of crying that spoke of endless sorrow.
My mind raced through scenarios, each worse than the last, but they all circled back to one thingbetrayal. A cheap, humiliating betrayal staged like a horror film.
I edged around the fence. The gate wasnt locked, just pushed shut. The rusted hinge groaned, and I froze, listening. But the weeping didnt stop, as if nothing else mattered.
The yard was choked with weeds up to my waist. I waded through, thorns snagging my jeans, dampness seeping in. Up close, the house was even more unsettlingpeeling paint, gaping windows, the smell of rot and damp earth.
I crept beneath the window. Now I could hear not just the crying, but his voice. My husbands.
“Shh, its alright. Im here,” he murmured.
I had never heard him speak to me like that. The tenderness in his voice stole my breath.
This was worse than passion. This was care. Deep, intimate care for another woman.
A wave of fury rose inside me. I wanted to kick that flimsy door open, storm in, look him in his lying eyes. See herthe one whod taken him from me.
But I held back. My feet rooted to the ground. I imagined the sceneme bursting in, screaming, him shielding 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 damp shoes, tossed my coat over a chair, and sat in the dark kitchen.
When he walked in, I saw how exhausted he wasgrey-faced, shadows under his eyes. He flicked the light switch and startled at the sight of me.
“Lena? Why are you up?”
“Waiting for you. From work.” I kept my voice flat.
He rubbed his forehead. “Long night. Well talk tomorrow.”
“No, Daniel. Well talk now. I know where you were.”
He looked up. There was no guilt in his eyes. Just exhaustionand fear. He was afraid.
“What do you know?” he whispered.
“I know about the old house. And the woman who cries. Is that your urgent work?”
His face went blank. He stared at me as if Id betrayed him.
“You followed me?”
“Did I have a choice? Youve lied for months! Who is she, Daniel?”
I expected denial, anger, pleas. But his answer stunned me.
“I cant tell you.”
“What do you mean, *cant*?” My voice cracked.
“It means you have to trust me. Please, Lena, dont dig into this. Dont ruin what we have.”
He wasnt making excuses. He was building a wallan impenetrable one, woven from secrecy and pain.
I realised thenthis wasnt the end. It was the beginning of something far worse than infidelity.
That night passed in cold silence. We lay in bed like strangers, divided by his secret. In the morning, he left for his “real” job with a terse “see you tonight,” and I was alone again.
I couldnt take it anymore. His plea*dont dig into this*echoed in my skull. But this wasnt about jealousy anymore. It was about the fear Id seen in his eyes. He wasnt afraid of my anger. He was afraid *for* me.
At midday, I drove back to that house. In daylight, it looked even more forsaken. I pushed the creaky gate open and marched to the porch. The door was locked, but one ground-floor window was loosely boarded.
I squeezed inside. The air was thick with dust and old wood. Furniture lay shrouded in white sheetslike ghosts. Then, a shuffle from upstairs.
I climbed the groaning steps. The door to the lit room was ajar. I peered in.
A slender girl sat on the bed, her back to me, combing long dark hair. Her shoulders shook. This was herthe one who cried at night.
“Hello,” I said softly.
She flinched and spun around. Her eyeswide, frightenedwere exactly like Daniels.
In that moment, all my suspicions crumbled. This wasnt his lover.
“Who are you?” she whispered, clutching a pillow.
“Im Lena. Daniels wife.”
Downstairs, the front door slammed.
“Annie? Where are you? I brought food!”
Daniel. He appeared in the doorway a minute later and went still at the sight of me. His face paled.
“Lena what are you doing here? Please, just go.”
“No,” I said firmly, not looking away from the girl. “No more secrets, Daniel. Explain.”
He glanced at his sister, then at me. And thenhe broke. He sat on the beds edge and covered his face.
“This is Annie. My little sister.”
His words came in fragments, tangled with emotion, but as I listened, icy dread melted into aching sympathy. Five years ago, their mother had died suddenly in this very house. Annie had found her. It broke her.
Severe trauma, agoraphobia. She couldnt bring herself to leave the place that reminded her of their mum.
Daniel had tried everythingdoctors, therapy. Nothing worked. The moment anyone mentioned leaving, shed spiral into hysterics. Eventually, he gave up.
He hid her away, terrified shed be institutionalised. Brought her food, medicine, cleaned, talked for hours. Carried the burden alone, torn between her and our life together.
“I was afraid to tell you,” he whispered, tears in his eyes. “Thought youd leave. And I couldnt lose you too.”
I knelt before him, took his hands. All my hurt, all my jealousyit felt petty beside his pain.
“You idiot,” I breathed. “Were family.”
I looked at Annie. She watched us, and for the first time in years, something flickered in her frightened eyescuriosity.
I didnt know what lay aheadyears of struggle, tears, small
