And every time he turned away, my mind went back to those two sentences:
“I don’t want to hurt Mia.”
“If I confess… I might lose her.”
By midweek, my imagination had already destroyed our marriage ten different ways.
One evening, after dinner, when the kids had gone to their room and the sink was full of plates, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stood at the counter, hands in the soapy water, and asked quietly, without looking at him:
“Love… is something wrong?”
Adrian looked up from his phone, startled. For a moment I saw the truth in his eyes — panic, guilt, fear — and then he plastered on a smile.
“No, no. Just tired from work,” he said, like he’d rehearsed that line.
But I didn’t believe him. Not for a second.
The next day, I came home early from work.
The house was unusually quiet. No TV, no kids, just the faint murmur of a voice coming from the bedroom. Our bedroom.
I stopped in the hallway.
Adrian was on the phone. His voice was low, urgent.
“I can’t hide it anymore,” he said. “I have to tell Mia before it eats me alive.”
My bag nearly slipped from my hand.
