It started quietly — a door clicking shut after midnight, soft footsteps fading down the hallway. For months, I told myself it was nothing. My husband, Daniel, was close to his mother. She was elderly, frail. Maybe she just needed company. Maybe he was being the dutiful son I should have admired.
But the longer it went on, the colder our marriage felt. Every night, I lay awake in the dark, watching the ceiling fan circle like a metronome for doubt. The space beside me stayed empty until dawn.
When I asked Daniel, his voice was steady. “She gets scared at night,” he said, brushing a hand through my hair. “She doesn’t like being alone.”
His explanation should have comforted me — but it didn’t. Instead, it left a splinter under my skin. Why every night? Why couldn’t he tell me more?
Three years of marriage had taught me patience, but also patterns. And his new pattern — this ritual of leaving me for her — gnawed at me until love began to sound like an excuse.
One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I waited for him to slip out, then followed barefoot, my pulse hammering. The hallway glowed faintly with light leaking from under her door. I heard voices — low, trembling.
“Careful, son,” his mother whispered.
I froze. My heart twisted in my chest. Every terrible possibility my mind had ever imagined came rushing forward. I pressed my ear closer, holding my breath.
And then I heard him say — softly, lovingly —
“I know, Mom. Hold still. I’ll put on the ointment.”
I pushed the door open just enough to see.
