He insisted his late-night absences were for work. I didnt believe him, so one evening, I followed him to an old house where a womans weeping echoed through the walls.
“Again?” I asked, watching as he hurriedly laced his shoes in the hallway.
He froze for just a fraction of a secondlong enough for me to know.
“Lina, weve talked about this. Urgent order. I have to oversee it myself.”
His voice was steady, almost indifferent. He avoided my eyes, staring blankly at the wall instead, and that emptiness hurt more than any argument.
The lie wasnt in his words. It was in the air between usthick, suffocating, clinging to everything.
I didnt respond. Just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching. Weeks ago, Id caught an unfamiliar scent on his jacketsoft, sweet, like skincare products.
When Id asked, hed joked it was the office perfume. But he worked in IT, and the only woman there was the elderly accountant.
“Dont wait up,” he muttered before the door clicked shut behind him.
The sound of the lock was like a full stop to a terrible sentence.
Something inside me snapped. Not for the first timebut this time, for good. Enough. Enough of the torment, enough pretending I believed his flimsy excuses.
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, cold determination guiding me.
I slipped outside 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 lights. My heart hammered in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
He wasnt heading toward the city centre, where his office was.
He took the old roadthe one leading to the abandoned outskirts, a place no sane person would go at night.
The asphalt gave way to gravel. My car shuddered, branches scraping the sides. Finally, his vehicle stopped near a leaning fence, beyond which stood the silhouette of a two-storey house.
Dark. Derelict. Windows like hollow eyes.
He got out without looking back and vanished into the shadows.
I parked further away, cut the engine. Silence pressed in, broken only by the rustle of leaves.
I sat for minutes, steadying my breathing. Why was he here? What was this place?
Stepping out, I crept toward the fence, careful not to crunch gravel. One second-floor window glowed faintly.
Hed claimed his late-night trips were for work. I hadnt believed himand now, standing by that strangers fence, I knew my worst fears were justified.
Because from that window, where the sickly yellow light spilled out, came the unmistakable sound of a woman weeping.
Soft. Desperate. Agonising.
The sound crawled under my skin, raising goosebumps. It was the kind of cry that spoke of endless despair.
My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last, but they all led to one thing: betrayal.
A cliché, humiliating betrayal, bizarrely staged in some horror-film setting.
I edged around the fence. The gate wasnt locked, just propped shut. The rusted hinge screeched, and I frozebut the crying didnt stop, as if nothing else mattered.
The yard was overgrown with weeds. I waded through them, thorns snagging my jeans, dampness seeping in.
Up close, the house was even more forebodingpeeling paint, gaping windows, the scent of rot and damp earth.
I moved beneath the window. Now I could hear not just the crying but his voicemy husbands.
“There now, hush,” he murmured. “Im here. Its alright.”
His tonegentle, patient, tenderwas one hed never used with me. It stole my breath.
This was worse than passion. This was devotion. Intimate, aching care for another woman.
White-hot fury rose in me. I wanted to kick down the door, force my way in, scream into his lying face. See herthe one whod stolen him.
But I held back. My feet seemed rooted to the ground. If I stormed in, hed look at me with reproach. Defend 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 in the darkened kitchen.
When he walked in, he looked exhaustedgrey-faced, dark circles under his eyes. He flicked the light switch, startled to see me.
“Lina? Why are you up?”
“Waiting for you. Back from work.” I kept my voice flat.
He rubbed his forehead. “Long night. Well talk tomorrow.”
“No, Andrew. Well talk now. I know where you were.”
He looked up. No guilt in his eyesjust exhaustion. And fear. He was afraid.
“What do you know?” he whispered.
“I know about the old house. About the woman who cries there. Is that your urgent order?”
His face went still. He stared at me like 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. Pleading. His answer stunned me.
“I cant tell you.”
“What do you mean, you cant?” My voice cracked.
“It means you have to trust me. Please, Lina. Dont dig into this. Save what we have left.”
He wasnt apologising. He was building a wallimpenetrable, woven from secrets and pain.
That night passed in icy silence. We lay in bed like strangers, divided by his mystery.
The next morning, I went back. In daylight, the house looked even sadder. I pushed through the creaky gate, marched up to the porch. The door was locked, but one ground-floor window was loosely boarded.
I squeezed inside. Dust and decay hung in the air. Sheets draped over furniture like ghosts.
A rustle came from upstairs.
I climbed the groaning steps. The door to the lit room was ajar. I peered in.
A thin girl sat on the bed, back turned, combing her long dark hair. Her shoulders shook. This was herthe one who cried.
“Hello,” I said softly.
She flinched, whirling around. Her eyeswide, frightenedwere just like his.
In that moment, all my suspicions crumbled. This wasnt his lover.
“Who are you?” she whispered, clutching the pillows.
“Lina. Andrews wife.”
Downstairs, the front door banged open.
“Anna? Where are you? I brought food!”
Andrew appeared moments later. He paled when he saw me.
“Linawhat are you doing here? Please, go!”
“No.” I kept my eyes on the girl. “No more secrets, Andrew. Explain.”
He looked at her, then at me. And broke.
“This is Anna. My little sister.”
He spoke haltingly, stumbling over words. Five years ago, their mother had died suddenly in this house. Anna had found her. It broke her.
Severe trauma. Agoraphobia. She couldnt leave, couldnt face the world. Doctors, therapynothing helped.
So he hid her. Carried the burden alone, torn between his secret and our life.
“I was afraid to tell you,” he whispered, tears in his eyes. “I thought youd leave. I couldnt lose you too.”
I knelt, taking his hands. All my anger felt petty now.
“You idiot,” I breathed. “Were family.”
I looked at Anna. For the first time in years, curiosity flickered in her frightened eyes.
The road ahead would be long. Years of struggle, tears, small victories. But in that dusty room, I knew one thing for certain: the wall between us had fallen.
We wouldnt carry this weight alone anymore. Wed do it together.
The first days were fragile. Air thick with awkwardness.
Andrew watched me, grateful but wary. Anna stayed silent, observing like a scared animal.
I started visiting dailybringing groceries, then cooking. The smell of fresh bread pushed back the musty decay.
She never left her room, but I knew she noticed. Once, I left warm biscuits by her door. An hour later, the plate was empty.
Our first small victory.
A week later, I found a specialista therapist who worked with trauma. I showed Andrew the website.
“Lina, no. Weve tried. It only makes it worse.”
“That was five years ago! Medicine changes! We cant just wait for a miracle!”
“Im not waiting for a miracle!” His voice rose. “Im trying not to hurt her more! You didnt see her then. You dont understand.”
Our first fight since the truth came out. Quiet, but painful.
I
