My husband is a good man. That’s what I always told myself. He’s handy, dependable, always willing to help. A real fixer. That’s why, when his ex-girlfriend called, needing something repaired, it didn’t initially alarm me. Just being a good person, I reasoned, a considerate neighbor. They’d dated years ago, a brief thing before he met me. No lingering feelings, he’d assured me. A clean break.
But the calls started to stack up. First, it was a leaky faucet. Then a wonky light fixture. A door that wouldn’t close right. Each time, he’d grab his toolbox, give me a quick kiss, and promise to be back soon. And he always was. Sometimes he’d laugh, shaking his head. She’s so helpless, you know? Can’t even hang a picture straight. And I’d smile, a dutiful wife, telling myself he was just being kind.
But the smile started to feel brittle. The “helpless” narrative began to wear thin. How many things could possibly break in one house? How many times could she truly need him specifically, when there were plumbers and electricians readily available? A quiet unease started to fester inside me, a tiny, insistent whisper. Is this really just about repairs?
A woman sitting in a living room | Source: Midjourney
I’d try to dismiss it. Don’t be that wife. Don’t be insecure. He was always open with his phone, always told me where he was going. He’d come home, tell me what he fixed, sometimes even complain good-naturedly about her lack of common sense. He’d reassure me. You know I love you. She’s nothing. Just a friend in need. And I desperately wanted to believe him. I did. Most of the time.
But the calls grew more frequent. A weekend morning. A weeknight after dinner. Sometimes he’d be gone for an hour, sometimes two. And the excuses seemed to get more elaborate. A complicated wiring issue. A stubborn appliance. What kind of appliance? I’d ask, trying to sound casual, but my heart would be thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Oh, just her dryer again. Needed a new belt.
A dryer belt. That’s a bit specific, isn’t it? My internal voice was getting louder, sharper. I started watching him when the phone rang. The way his brow would furrow with a mix of resignation and… something else. A flicker of eagerness? I hated myself for even thinking it. For doubting the man I loved, the man I’d built a life with. But the doubt was a venomous vine, growing, tightening around my chest.
Then came the call that tipped me over the edge. It was Saturday afternoon. We had plans, a quiet lunch at our favorite cafe. The phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then at me, a quick, almost guilty look. “It’s her,” he mumbled, stepping into the kitchen. I pretended to be absorbed in my book, but every nerve ending was tuned to his hushed conversation. “Again? Right. Yeah, I can be over in a bit. Don’t worry about it.”
When he came back, his face was a mask of practiced regret. “Her toilet’s overflowing. It’s an emergency.”
My carefully constructed facade crumbled. An emergency? Again? My throat felt tight, my voice a strained whisper. “An overflowing toilet? Can’t she call a plumber? This is ridiculous.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’s panicking. Says she can’t afford a plumber right now. You know how she is.”
Close-up of a woman’s face | Source: Midjourney
“I know how she is?” I snapped, the words surprising even myself. The frustration, the hurt, the fear all welled up inside me. This wasn’t just about a toilet. This was about our time, our weekend, my peace of mind. And more than that, it was about a gnawing suspicion that felt like it was eating me alive.
A sudden, sharp clarity cut through the haze of my anger. I can’t do this anymore. I couldn’t just sit home and wonder. I couldn’t let this fester. I needed to see. I needed to know. The idea, once a terrifying thought, now felt like the only path to sanity.
“Fine,” I said, my voice deliberately calm, even as my hands trembled slightly. “I’ll come with you.”
His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then something else. Alarm? He quickly masked it. “What? No, honey, you don’t have to. It’s just a toilet. It’ll be messy.”
“Nonsense,” I insisted, forcing a bright smile. “I’ll help. Or at least I can hand you tools. Besides, we can still go to lunch afterwards, right? It’ll be faster if I help.” He can’t say no without looking guilty. And he knew it. He hesitated for a long moment, his gaze searching mine, as if trying to decipher my true intentions. But I held his gaze, unwavering.
“Alright,” he finally said, a forced cheerfulness in his tone. “If you really want to. Just… try not to get wet.”
A cold, hard knot settled in my stomach. This was it. The moment of truth.
The drive to her house was silent, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the frantic pounding of my heart. My husband tried to make small talk, but my replies were clipped, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery. What am I going to find? What do I want to find? A part of me hoped to see nothing, to have my fears proven utterly baseless, to go home and laugh at my own silly insecurity. But a darker, more pragmatic part knew that was unlikely.
Close-up of a phone in a woman’s hands | Source: Pexels
Her house looked the same as always – a tidy, unassuming bungalow. He pulled into the driveway, and for the first time, I noticed her car was already there. Of course it is. We walked up to the door. He knocked, then let himself in with a key. A key. My breath hitched. I hadn’t seen that before. Maybe it’s just for emergencies? I tried to rationalize.
“Honey? I’m here. And I brought company!” he called out, his voice a little too loud, a little too jovial.
She appeared from the living room, a nervous smile on her face. She was pretty, in a delicate, almost fragile way. Her eyes flickered to me, then quickly back to him. “Oh, hi! I didn’t realize you were bringing your wife.” Her tone was light, but there was a definite hint of tension in her posture.
“Just thought I’d lend a hand,” I chirped, stepping forward, forcing a smile that felt like it was carved from ice. “Always happy to help out a neighbor!”
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right. Well, the toilet’s in the main bathroom. It’s just… it keeps running. And the water level seems low.”
A running toilet. Not overflowing. My husband’s emergency story was already a lie. A small lie, perhaps, but a lie nonetheless. My suspicions hardened into a grim resolve.
He headed towards the bathroom, grabbing his tools from the truck. “You two stay out here,” he said, “I’ll tackle this. Might be a bit of a splash.”
“Nonsense,” I said, following him. “I’ll sit in the living room. You won’t even know I’m here.” I made sure to sit on a comfortable sofa, positioned perfectly to observe.
As he went into the bathroom, closing the door most of the way, I took in the living room. It was warm, tastefully decorated. Not the sparse, temporary feel of a single person trying to make ends meet. There were family photos on the mantle. A child’s drawings taped to the fridge in the open-plan kitchen. Interesting.
A serious woman | Source: Midjourney
My husband’s voice, muffled, came from the bathroom. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here…”
I scanned the room again. A half-finished crossword puzzle on the coffee table. A child’s brightly colored building blocks spilled across a rug. No kids, she said. Never had kids. Or so he’d implied. He’d said she was alone.
Then my eyes landed on a photo frame on an end table, half-hidden behind a plant. It was a family portrait. Her, smiling brightly, my husband’s arm around her… and between them, a little boy, no older than five or six, beaming at the camera. He had my husband’s eyes. His hair. He was the spitting image of him.
My breath caught in my throat. I stood up, my legs feeling like jelly, and slowly walked towards the picture. My fingers grazed the glass. The boy. This wasn’t just a child. This was their child.
A small, high-pitched giggle echoed from down the hall. Not from the bathroom where he was ‘fixing’ the toilet. From a bedroom door that was slightly ajar.
My heart was in my ears. I took a hesitant step towards the sound, drawn by an irresistible, terrifying pull. The ex-girlfriend was still in the living room, nervously fiddling with a cushion, her eyes on me, her smile gone. She looked terrified.
I reached the slightly open bedroom door. I pushed it open gently.
Inside, a small, brightly decorated room. Toys scattered on the floor. A child’s bed. And there, sitting on the carpet, playing with a small toy truck, was the boy from the photo.
He looked up at me, innocent, curious. His eyes, so like my husband’s, were wide.
From the bathroom, I heard my husband’s cheerful voice. “Almost done in here, sport! Your special wrench really did the trick!”
The little boy, looking directly at me, grinned. “Daddy?” he called out, his voice clear as a bell, full of pure, unadulterated childish joy.
A woman using her phone | Source: Midjourney
The world stopped. The air left my lungs. My blood turned to ice. My husband, his “ex,” this house, the “repairs,” my entire life… it was all a meticulously crafted lie. My husband wasn’t helping his ex. He was visiting his son. His son, whom I knew nothing about. Their son.
The little boy, still looking at me, then turned his head, hearing his father’s voice. “Daddy, are you done fixing the potty?”
My husband emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a rag, and saw me standing in the doorway of the child’s room. His face went chalk-white. The rag slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud. He looked from me to the boy, then to his ex, who had frozen in the living room.
Silence. Heavy. Crushing.
I looked at the beautiful little boy, who was now looking expectantly at his father. Then I looked at my husband, the man I loved, the man I trusted, who was now just a stranger in front of me.
The “repairs.” The “emergencies.” It was never about fixing a faucet or a dryer belt. It was about tucking a child into bed. It was about being a father. It was about a whole other life.
My eyes burned. Not with tears, but with a searing, white-hot pain. ALL OF IT WAS A LIE. EVERYTHING.
