He claimed his nightly absences were for work. I didnt believe him, and one evening, I followed him to an old house where the sound of a woman weeping echoed through the night.
“Again?” I asked, staring not at him but at the way he hurriedly laced his boots in the hallway.
He frozejust for a fraction of a secondbut it was enough.
“Lina, weve talked about this. Urgent deadlines. I have to oversee it personally.”
His voice was steady, almost indifferent. He avoided my gaze, and that empty stare at the wall opposite hurt more than any argument.
The lie wasnt in his words but in the air between usthick, clinging, settling on the furniture, on our belongings, on me.
I said nothing. Just stood, leaning against the doorframe, watching. Weeks ago, Id caught a faint, unfamiliar scent on his jacket.
Not sharp like perfume, but subtle, sweetlike lotion or cream.
When I asked, hed brushed it off, joking about the women in his office. But he worked in IT, where the only woman was the elderly bookkeeper nearing retirement.
“Ill be late. Dont wait up,” he muttered, already halfway out the door.
The metallic click of the lock sounded like a full stop in a sentence I was too afraid to finish.
Something inside me snapped. Not for the first timebut tonight, for the last. Enough.
Enough of the torment, enough pretending I believed his flimsy excuses about work.
I threw my coat over my nightshirt, shoved my feet into trainers, and grabbed my car keys without thinking. My hands moved on their own, obeying a cold, grim resolve.
I slipped outside minutes after him. His car was just turning the corner at the end of our lane.
I kept my distance, switching off my headlights when he stopped at traffic signals. My heart hammered in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
He wasnt heading towards the city centre, where his office was.
He turned onto an old road leading to derelict country houses on the outskirts. Places no one in their right mind would visit at night.
The asphalt gave way to gravel. My car jolted over the uneven surface, branches scraping the sides. Finally, his car stopped beside a leaning fence, beyond which stood the silhouette of a two-storey house.
Dark, abandoned, with empty sockets where windows should have been.
He stepped out without looking back and vanished into the shadows of the house.
I parked further away, killed the engine. A brittle silence surrounded me, broken only by the rustling of leaves.
I sat for minutes, trying to still my trembling. Why was he here? What was this place?
Stepping out, I crept towards the fence on tiptoe, avoiding the crunch of gravel. A dim light flickered in one of the upstairs windows.
Hed sworn his disappearances were for work. I hadnt believed him, and now, standing by that strangers fence, I knew my worst suspicions were right.
Because from that window, where the sickly yellow light spilled out, came the unmistakable sound of a womans weeping.
Soft, despairing, filled with pain.
It crawled under my skin, raising gooseflesh. It was raw, hopeless.
My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the lastbut all pointing to one thing: betrayal.
Pathetic, humiliating betrayal, staged like some cheap horror film.
I circled the fence. The gate wasnt latched, just pushed shut. The rusted hinge groaned, and I froze, listening. But the weeping didnt falter, as if oblivious to the world outside.
The garden was overgrown, weeds reaching my waist. I fought through them, thorns snagging my jeans, dampness seeping into the fabric.
The house looked even more dreadful up close. Peeling paint, gaping windows, the smell of rot and damp earth.
I crept beneath the windows. Now I could hear not just the crying, but his voicemy husbands voice.
“Shh, now. Its alright. Im here,” he murmured.
The gentleness in his tonehed never spoken to me like that. There was unbearable patience, tenderness, and it stole my breath.
This was worse than if Id heard passion, moans. This was care. Intimate, deep, devoted care for another woman.
A wave of scalding fury rose inside me. I wanted to kick down the flimsy door, storm in, look him in his lying eyes. See herthe one whod stolen my husband, turned our life into this nightmare.
But I held back. My feet rooted to the ground. I imagined the scene: me barging in, shouting, him staring at me with reproach. Protecting her. The thought made me sick.
I stumbled back into the dark, tripping over roots. I had to leave.
The drive home felt endless. I arrived ten minutes before him. Kicked off my damp shoes, tossed my coat over a chair, and sat in the dark kitchen.
When he walked in, I saw how haggard he lookedgrey-faced, dark hollows under his eyes. He flicked on the light, then flinched at the sight of me.
“Lina? Why arent you asleep?”
“Waiting for you. From work.”
I kept my voice flat.
He rubbed his temples tiredly.
“Long night. Well talk tomorrow.”
“No, Andrew. Well talk now. I know where you were.”
His eyes met mine. Not a trace of guiltjust exhaustion, and fear. He was afraid.
“What do you know?” he whispered.
“I know about the old house. The woman crying inside. Is that your urgent business?”
His face went slack. He stared at me like Id committed some unspeakable betrayal.
“You you followed me?”
“Did I have a choice? Youve been lying for months! Who is she, Andrew?”
I braced for anythingdenial, rage, pleas for forgiveness. But his answer stunned me.
“I cant tell you.”
“What do you mean, you cant?” My voice cracked into a shout.
“It means you have to trust me. Please, Lina. Stay out of this. Save what we have left.”
He wasnt apologising. He was building a wallan impenetrable one, woven from secrets and pain.
I realised this wasnt the end. It was the beginning of something far worse than mere infidelity.
That night passed in cold silence. We lay in bed, strangers, divided by the chasm of his secret. By morning, he left for his real job with a hollow “see you tonight,” and I was alone again.
I couldnt go on like this. His plea to “stay out of it” buzzed in my skull. But this wasnt about jealousy anymore.
It was about the fear Id seen in his eyes.
He wasnt afraid of my anger.
He was afraid for me.
By afternoon, I drove back to that house. In daylight, it looked even sadder, more desolate. I shoved the creaking gate open and marched to the porch. The door was locked, but one downstairs window was loosely boarded.
I squeezed inside, landing in near-darkness. Dust and old wood filled my nose.
Furniture lay beneath white sheets like shrouds. As I crept down the hall, a rustle came from above.
The stairs groaned underfoot. The door to the lit room was ajar. I peered in.
A slender girl sat on the bed, her back to me, combing long dark hair. Her shoulders shook.
This was her. The one who cried at night.
“Hello,” I said softly.
She startled, whirling around. Her eyeswide, frightenedwere exactly like Andrews.
In that moment, every suspicion crumbled.
This wasnt his lover.
“Who are you?” she whispered, clutching a pillow.
“Lina. Andrews wife.”
Below us, the front door banged open.
“Annie? Where are you? I brought food!”
Andrew. He appeared in the doorway a minute later and froze, paling at the sight of me beside her.
“Lina what are you? Please, go!”
“No,” I said firmly, not looking away from the girl. “No more secrets, Andrew. Explain.”
He glanced at her, then at me, and broke. Sinking onto the bed, he buried his face in his hands.
“This is Annie. My little sister.”
He spoke in fragments, stumbling over words, while icy horror in me thawed into aching pity.
Five years ago, in this very house, their mother had died suddenly. Annie had found her. And it shattered her.
Severe trauma, agoraphobia. She couldnt bear to leave the place that reminded her of their mother.
Andrew had tried everythingdoctors, therapy, all useless. Just mentioning leaving sent her into hysterics. Eventually, he gave up.
He hid her away, fearing shed be institutionalised. Brought her food, medicine, cleaned, talked for hours. Carried the burden alone
