I thought my marriage was solid. Tom and I had a cozy life in the old house I’d inherited from my grandmother. We’d even started talking about having kids. Life felt safe, steady—perfect.
But one weekend, I came home earlier than expected. The house was dark and eerily quiet. Then I smelled it: bleach.
Following the sharp scent, I opened the basement door and froze. Tom was on his knees, furiously scrubbing a huge, dark stain on the concrete floor. Beside him, a rolled-up rug and a bulging trash bag sat against the wall.
When I asked what was going on, he jumped like I’d caught him red-handed. His excuse? Spilled wine. But wine doesn’t smell like bleach—and Tom had never cleaned with such desperation before.
The next day, I found the basement door locked. Using my grandmother’s old spare key, I went inside. The trash bag held stained clothes: Tom’s shirt and a woman’s delicate white dress. My heart sank.
Desperate for answers, I turned to our neighbor, Mrs. Talbot, who saw Tom bringing a young woman into our house Friday night while I was gone. She never saw her leave.
When I confronted Tom, he insisted it was innocent—a colleague, Claire, who had spilled wine and borrowed one of my dresses to get home. To prove it, he set up a dinner with her. Claire confirmed everything, apologizing and promising to keep things professional.
I wanted to believe them. Maybe it was all true. But as I sat with Tom later that night, one thought burned in my mind: if my trust is ever shaken like that again, there won’t be a second chance.
