**Diary Entry**
He always said his late-night disappearances were for work. I never believed him, and one night I followed him to an old house where the sound of a womans crying drifted through the air.
“Again?” I asked, staring not at him but at the way he hurriedly laced his shoes in the hallway.
He froze for a fraction of a secondjust long enough.
“Lina, weve talked about this. Its an urgent project. I have to oversee it personally.”
His voice was flat, almost indifferent. He wouldnt meet my eyes, and that empty stare at the wall opposite hurt more than any argument.
The lie wasnt in his words. It was in the air between usthick, clinging, settling over the furniture, our things, over me.
I said nothing. Just leaned against the doorframe and watched. Weeks ago, Id caught a faint, unfamiliar scent on his jacketnot sharp like perfume, but soft, sweet, like skincare.
When I asked, hed joked it was from the women in his office. But he worked in IT, where the only woman was the pension-age accountant.
“Ill be late, dont wait up,” he called before the door clicked shut behind him.
The sound of the lock was a full stop to a sentence I was too afraid to finish.
Something inside me snapped. Not for the first time, but tonightfinallyfor good. Enough. Enough of this torture, of pretending to believe his flimsy excuses about work.
I threw my coat over my t-shirt, shoved my feet into trainers, and grabbed my car keys without thinking. My hands moved on their own, cold with resolve.
I slipped out minutes after him. His car was just turning at the end of our street. I kept my distance, killing the headlights when he stopped at traffic lights. My heart pounded in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
He wasnt heading toward the city centre, where his office was. He took the old road leading to abandoned cottages on the outskirtsplaces no one in their right mind would go at night.
The asphalt gave way to gravel. My car shook as branches scraped the sides. Finally, his car stopped near a crooked fence, beyond which stood the silhouette of a two-storey housedark, derelict, its windows like hollow eyes.
He got out without looking back and disappeared into the shadows.
I parked further away, cut the engine. Silence pressed in, broken only by the rustle of leaves. I sat for minutes, steadying my breath. Why was he here? What was this place?
Stepping out, I crept toward the fence, avoiding the crunch of gravel. A dim light flickered in an upstairs window.
Hed sworn his late-night absences were for work. I hadnt believed him, and now, standing by that strangers fence, I knew my worst fears were right. Because from that window, where sickly yellow light spilled out, came the unmistakable sound of a woman crying.
Soft. Desperate. Hopeless.
The sound crawled under my skin, raising goosebumps. My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last, but all pointed to one thingbetrayal.
A cheap, humiliating affair, staged like some cheap horror film.
I circled the fence. The gate wasnt latched, just pushed shut. The rusty hinge groaned, and I frozebut the crying didnt stop, as if nothing else mattered.
The yard was choked with waist-high weeds. I waded through, thorns snagging my jeans, dampness seeping in. Close up, the house was worsepeeling paint, gaping windows, the stink of rot and damp earth.
I edged beneath the window. Now I heard more than cryingI heard Andrews voice. My husbands voice.
“Shh, its alright,” he murmured. “Im here now.”
His toneId never heard him speak to me like that. It was patience, tenderness, a depth of care that stole my breath.
This was worse than passion. This was devotion. Intimate, aching devotion to another woman.
Rage burned through me. I wanted to kick down that flimsy door, force my way in, stare into his lying eyes. See *her*. The one whod stolen him, turned our life into this nightmare.
But I held back. My feet rooted to the ground. If I stormed in, hed look at me with blame. Defend *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 wet shoes, tossed my coat over a chair, and sat in the dark kitchen.
When he walked in, he looked exhaustedgrey-faced, dark circles under his eyes. He flicked on the light and flinched at the sight of me.
“Lina? Why arent you asleep?”
“Waiting for you. From *work*.” I kept my voice steady.
He rubbed his forehead. “Long night. Well talk tomorrow.”
“No, Andrew. Well talk now. I know where you were.”
His eyes lifted. No guilt therejust endless weariness and fear. He was afraid.
“What do you know?”
“I know about the old house. About the woman who cries there. Is *that* your urgent project?”
His face went blank. He stared at me like *Id* betrayed *him*.
“You you followed me?”
“Did I have a choice? Youve lied for months! Who is she?”
I expected denial, anger, pleas. His answer stunned me.
“I cant tell you.”
“*Cant?*” My voice broke.
“It means you have to trust me. Please, Lina, dont push this. Save what we have.”
No excuses. Just a wallsolid, impenetrable, woven from secrets and pain.
I knew then this wasnt the end. It was the start of something far worse than an affair.
That night passed in cold silence. We lay in bed like 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*dont push this*rang 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. In daylight, the house looked sadder, more abandoned. I shoved the creaking gate open and marched to the porch. The door was locked, but a ground-floor window was boarded loosely.
I squeezed inside. Dust and old wood filled my nose. Furniture lay shrouded in sheets like ghosts. A rustle sounded upstairs.
The stairs groaned under my weight. The door to the lit room was ajar. I peered in.
A thin 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.
“Hi,” I said softly.
She startled, whirling around. Her eyeswide, frightenedwere Andrews exactly.
All my suspicions crumbled. This wasnt his lover.
“Who are you?” she whispered, clutching a pillow.
“Im Lina. Andrews wife.”
Downstairs, the front door banged open. “Annie? Ive got groceries!”
Andrew. He appeared in the doorway a minute later and paled at the sight of me.
“Lina what are you? Please, just go.”
“No.” I kept my eyes on the girl. “No more secrets, Andrew. Talk.”
He glanced at her, then me. And broke. Sitting on the beds edge, he covered his face.
“This is Annie. My little sister.”
His words came in fragments, tangled, and as I listened, icy horror melted into hot pity. Five years ago, in this very house, their mother had died suddenly. Annie had found her. It broke her.
Severe trauma, agoraphobia. She couldnt leave the house that reminded her of their mum.
Andrew had tried everythingdoctors, therapy. Nothing worked. The moment anyone mentioned leaving, shed spiral into hysterics. In the end, hed given up.
Hidden her away to keep her from being institutionalised. Brought her food, medicine, cleaned, talked for hours. Carried the weight alone, torn between his secret and our life.
“I was scared 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 felt small, stupid next to his pain.
“You idiot. Were family.”
I looked at Annie. She watched us, and for the first time in years, curiosity flickered in her frightened eyes.
I didnt know what lay aheadyears of struggle, tears, small wins and big losses. But in that dusty room, I knew one thing: the wall between us had fallen. We wouldnt carry this alone
