**Diary Entry**
He kept insisting his late-night outings were for work. I didnt believe him, and one night, I followed him to an old house where the sound of a womans weeping drifted through the air.
“Again?” I asked, watching as he hastily laced up his shoes in the hallway.
He frozejust for a split secondbut it was enough.
“Lina, we talked about this. Its an urgent order. I have to oversee it myself.”
His voice was steady, almost indifferent. He wouldnt meet my eyes, and that empty stare at the wall opposite hurt worse than any argument.
The lie wasnt in his words. It hung thick in the air between us, clinging to the furniture, our belongings, even me.
I didnt answer. Just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching. Weeks ago, Id caught a faint, unfamiliar scent on his jacketnot sharp like perfume, but soft, sweet. Like skincare products.
When I asked, he brushed it off, joking that his office was full of women. But he worked in ITthe only woman there was the near-retirement accountant.
“Ill be late. Dont wait up,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
The metallic click of the latch sounded like a full stop in a sentence I was afraid to finish.
Something inside me snapped. Not for the first time, but tonightfor good. Enough. Enough of this torment, enough pretending I believed his flimsy excuses about work.
I threw my coat over my pyjama top, shoved my feet into trainers, and grabbed my car keys without thinking. My hands moved on their own, obeying the cold, resolute voice in my head.
I slipped outside minutes after him. His car was just turning at the end of our cul-de-sac.
I kept my distance, killing the headlights whenever he stopped at traffic lights. My heart hammered in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
He wasnt heading toward the city centre, where his office was. Instead, he took the old road leading to abandoned cottages on the outskirts. A place no sane person would go at night.
The tarmac gave way to gravel. My car jolted over the uneven ground, branches scraping the sides. Finally, his car stopped near a leaning fence, beyond which stood a two-storey housedark, derelict, with shattered windows like empty eye sockets.
He got out and disappeared into the shadows of the house without looking back.
I parked farther away, switched off the engine, and sat in the ringing silence, broken only by the whisper of leaves. Trembling, I forced myself to wait. Why was he here? What was this place?
Stepping out, I crept toward the fence, careful not to crunch the gravel. A dim light glowed in one of the upstairs windows.
Hed sworn his late-night absences were for work. I hadnt believed him, and now, standing at the edge of this strangers property, I knew my worst suspicions were right. Because from that windowfrom the sickly yellow lightcame the unmistakable sound of a woman crying.
Quiet. Desperate.
It crawled under my skin, raising goosebumps. Heartbreaking, hopeless.
My mind raced through scenarios, each worse than the last, but they all led to the same conclusion: betrayal. A cliché, humiliating betrayal, staged like a scene from a horror film.
I edged around the fence. The gate wasnt locked, just pushed shut. Rusty hinges groaned, and I froze, listening. But the weeping continued, as if unaware of anything beyond its own grief.
The yard was overgrown with waist-high weeds. I waded through, thorns snagging my jeans, dampness seeping through the fabric.
The house looked even more sinister up closepeeling paint, gaping windows, the stench of rot and damp earth.
I moved beneath the windows. Now I could hear not just the crying, but Andrews voice. My husband.
“Shh, its alright,” he murmured. “Im here. Ive got you.”
His tonehed never spoken to *me* like that. So patient. So tender. It stole my breath.
This was worse than hearing passion. This was *care*. Deep, intimate devotion to another woman.
White-hot fury surged. I wanted to kick down the door, storm inside, force him to look me in the eye. See *her*. The one whod stolen my husband and turned our life into this nightmare.
But I held back. My feet rooted to the ground. I imagined the scene: me bursting in, screaming, him shielding her with a look of reproach. The thought made me sick.
I stumbled back into the dark, tripping over tree roots. I had to leave.
The drive home felt endless. I beat him back by ten minutes, kicked off my damp shoes, tossed my coat over a chair, and sat in the dark kitchen.
When he walked in, the exhaustion on his face was staggering. Grey skin, dark circles. He flicked the light switch and jumped at the sight of me.
“Lina? Why are you”
“Waiting for you. After *work*.”
I kept my voice level.
He rubbed his temples. “Rough night. Lets talk tomorrow.”
“No, Andrew. We talk *now*. I know where you were.”
His eyes lifted. No guilt. Just bone-deep wearinessand fear.
“What do you know?”
“The old house. The woman crying. Is *that* your urgent order?”
His face went slack. He stared at me like *Id* committed some terrible betrayal.
“Youyou *followed* me?”
“Did I have a choice? Youve been lying for months! Who is she?”
I expected denial, anger, pleas for forgiveness. But his answer stunned me.
“I cant tell you.”
“*Cant?*” My voice cracked.
“It means you have to trust me. Please, Lina. Stay out of this. Save whats left of us.”
He wasnt defending himself. He was building a wallimpenetrable, woven from secrets and pain.
That night passed in cold silence. We lay side by side, strangers divided by his mystery. In the morning, he left for his “*real*” job with a hollow “see you tonight,” and I stayed behind.
I couldnt take it anymore. His plea*stay out of it*echoed in my skull. 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.
That afternoon, I went back to the house. In daylight, it looked even sadder. I pushed through the creaky gate and marched to the porch. The door was locked, but one of the ground-floor windows was half-boarded.
I squeezed inside. Dust and old wood filled my nose.
Furniture lay draped in white sheets like ghosts. Thena rustle from upstairs.
I climbed the groaning staircase. The door to the lit room was ajar. I peered in.
A thin girl sat on the bed, back to me, in an oversized jumper. She was brushing long dark hair, shoulders shaking. *Her*. The one who cried at night.
“Hi,” I said softly.
She startled, whipping 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.”
Footsteps pounded downstairs.
“Annie? Where are you? I brought food!”
Andrew. He appeared in the doorway and froze, paling at the sight of me beside her.
“Linawhat are you? *Please*, just go.”
“No.” I didnt look away from the girl. “No more secrets, Andrew. *Talk*.”
He glanced between her and me, then broke. Sinking onto the bed, he covered his face.
“This is Annie. My little sister.”
His words came in fragments, tangled with emotion, and as I listened, icy horror melted into aching sympathy. Five years ago, in this very house, their mother had died suddenly. Annie had found her. It broke her.
Severe trauma. Agoraphobia. She couldnt bring herself to leave the place that still smelled of their mum.
Andrew had tried everythingdoctors, therapy. Nothing worked. The moment anyone mentioned leaving, shed spiral into hysterics. So he hid her. Brought her food, medicine, cleaned, talked for hours. Carried the burden alone, torn between his secret and our life.
“I was afraid to tell you,” he whispered, tears in his eyes. “Thought youd leave. I couldnt lose you too.”
I knelt, taking his hands. All my anger, all my jealousyit felt petty now beside his pain.
“You idiot,” I breathed. “Were *family*.”
I looked at Annie. For the first time in years, curiosity flickered in her frightened eyes.
I didnt know what lay aheadyears of struggle, tears,
