Sleep eluded me that night, my mind a carousel of suspicions that wouldn't stop spinning.
I lay beside David, listening to his even breathing, wondering how he could sleep so peacefully while carrying such a secret. The blonde hair I'd found still burned in my memory like a brand.
The digital clock on my nightstand flashed 2:17 AM when I finally slipped out of bed. David didn't stir – he never did these days, exhausted from his 'fishing trips.' I padded silently down the hallway to his study, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I'd never been the type to snoop through my husband's things. Twenty years of marriage had been built on trust – or so I'd thought.
But that trust was crumbling now, eroded by empty fish baskets and phantom blonde hairs.
David's study was neat as always. Moonlight spilled through the blinds, casting striped shadows across his oak desk. I pulled open the top drawer, wincing at the slight scrape of wood against wood. Nothing but pens, paperclips, and bills organized in tidy stacks.
The second drawer held fishing magazines and a few old photographs – our son, Robert's high school graduation, our twentieth anniversary trip to Lake Michigan.
I moved to his tackle box next, carefully lifting the lid.
The familiar smell of plastic lures and fish bait made my nose wrinkle. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary – hooks, bobbers, line spools, all arranged with David's characteristic precision.
No love notes, no hidden keepsakes, no evidence of a life beyond our marriage.
His wallet lay on the desk where he'd left it. I hesitated before opening it, feeling like a thief in my own home. Credit cards, driver's license, a punch card for the local coffee shop. I pulled out the receipts tucked behind his cash – gas station, hardware store, Tom's Bait & Tackle.
Nothing suspicious except... I paused, counting the cash withdrawals from our joint account.
Two hundred dollars last week, one-fifty the week before. What was he spending this money on? Gifts for her?
I replaced everything exactly as I'd found it and retreated to bed, no closer to answers than before.
The next morning, I watched David more carefully. He ate his breakfast, read the newspaper, kissed me absently on the cheek before heading to work – all completely normal. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I was living with a stranger.
Saturday arrived with the same ritual.
David loaded his gear into the truck, promising to be back before dark. I smiled and waved, the perfect picture of a trusting wife. Inside, I was screaming.
That evening, I heard his truck pull into the driveway right on schedule. Through the kitchen window, I watched him gather his things – empty fish basket included – and head toward the house. I busied myself with dinner preparations, acting as though this were any other evening.
"Hey, Mary," he called as he entered. "Something smells good."
"Just a casserole," I replied, noting how he immediately headed for the laundry room off the kitchen. I followed quietly, peering around the corner.
David was stripping off his clothes – fishing shirt, pants, even his socks – and stuffing them directly into the washing machine. Not the hamper, not to be washed with our regular laundry, but immediately and separately.
"What are you doing?" I asked, making him jump.
"Oh! Just... these clothes smell like lake water. Don't want the house stinking of fish." He added detergent and started the cycle before heading upstairs. "I'm going to grab a quick shower."
I stood there listening to the washing machine churn, my suspicions solidifying into certainty.
Who showers immediately after returning home unless they're washing away evidence? Who washes their clothes separately unless they're hiding something?
When I heard the shower running, I made my decision. I took his cell phone from where he'd left it on the counter and began to search.
Call history – nothing unusual. Text messages – conversations with Robert, with his brother, with coworkers about mundane matters. Contacts – no mysterious women's names, no numbers labeled with cute nicknames or initials.
I scrolled frantically, checking his email, his photos, even his browser history.
Nothing.
Not a single shred of evidence.
I returned his phone exactly where I'd found it, more confused than ever. If David was having an affair, he was being incredibly careful. Or perhaps he had a second phone – a burner that he kept hidden away from prying eyes. My eyes.
The shower shut off upstairs. I returned to the stove, stirring dinner mechanically as tears blurred my vision.
Twenty years of marriage, and suddenly I felt that I didn't know my husband at all.
