The washing machine hummed in the background as I stood in our kitchen, my mind spinning faster than the cycle.
The machine was washing away... what exactly? The scent of another woman's perfume?
I opened the cabinet and mechanically pulled out plates for dinner, my hands trembling slightly.
I thought I had a not bad marriage. But now I was living with a stranger who kept secrets. If his phone revealed nothing, there had to be another way he was communicating with her.
A second phone, he must have a second phone. The realization hit me like a physical blow.
Of course—that's why I couldn't find anything suspicious on his regular cell. David must have a burner phone, something he kept hidden from me.
Over the next few days, I became a detective in my own home. I searched everywhere when David was at work—behind books on shelves, inside his winter boots in the closet, beneath the spare tire in his truck.
But still nothing.
I checked his jacket pockets each night after he hung them up, patted down his pants when doing laundry, even looked inside the toilet tank like I'd seen in some crime show.
Each night, I lay beside him in bed, listening to his breathing, wondering if he was dreaming of her. Who was she? Young and beautiful, no doubt. Someone who made him feel alive again. Someone who didn't have crow's feet and gray hairs starting to appear. Someone who wasn't me.
"David," I whispered one night, though I knew he was asleep. "Who is she?"
He didn't stir, and I turned away, tears silently soaking my pillow.
During breakfast, I watched him spread butter on his toast, studying his hands for any sign—a lingering scent of unfamiliar perfume, a scratch from passionate lovemaking. Nothing. He caught me staring and smiled.
"Everything okay, Mary?"
"Fine," I lied, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about the day ahead."
I followed him around the house when he was home, always finding reasons to be in the same room. I'd appear suddenly in doorways, hoping to catch him mid-text or mid-call. His startled expressions only confirmed my suspicions.
"Do you need something?" he'd ask, clearly annoyed by my hovering.
"Just checking if you wanted more coffee," I'd say, or some other flimsy excuse.
Sleep became a luxury I couldn't afford. Night after night, I'd lie awake, imagining David with his mystery woman. Was she blonde, like that hair I'd found? Did they laugh about me, the oblivious wife at home? Did he tell her he loved her with the same voice he once used with me?
By Thursday, dark circles had formed under my eyes. My hands shook as I poured my morning coffee, spilling some onto the counter.
"You don't look well," David said, genuine concern in his voice. The audacity of his concern made my blood boil.
"I'm fine," I snapped. "Just not sleeping well."
"Maybe you should see Dr. Mitchell," he suggested. "Get something to help you sleep."
I almost laughed. The problem wasn't medical—it was matrimonial.
Saturday arrived, and we headed to Wilson's Grocery for our weekly shopping. I pushed the cart down the aisles, mechanically selecting items from our usual list. When we reached the meat and seafood section, a sudden impulse struck me.
"Let's get some fresh fish for dinner tonight," I suggested, watching his face carefully.
David's expression flickered—just for a moment, but I caught it. Discomfort. Panic, even.
"I was thinking chicken," he countered quickly. "We already have those potatoes to use up."
"But you love fish," I pressed, moving toward the seafood counter. "And since you never catch any..."
His hand on my arm stopped me. "Mary, please. Let's stick with chicken."
That moment—his pleading eyes, his firm grip on my arm—confirmed everything. David wasn't fishing at all. He was lying about everything.
That night, as I prepared the chicken he'd insisted on, a terrible thought formed in my mind: divorce.
DIVORCE…
The word alone made my throat constrict.
I looked across the kitchen at David, calmly reading his newspaper, and wondered if he was already planning his escape—his new life with her. The knife in my hand trembled as I chopped vegetables, tears blurring my vision.
But seriously… After twenty years, could I really walk away? Could I start over at my age? What would I tell our child?
I really didn’t know what to do. Should I leave or should I stay and endure? Why did every choice feel so unbearably painful?
