I am 37 years old. I have been married for eight years, and just a month ago, I was sure that my husband and I were the ‘perfect’ couple. Not ostentatious, not overly romantic, but strong. At least, that’s how it seemed to me.
Ethan and I were the kind of people people say are “reliable. Calm. Maybe a little boring — but in a good way.” We finished each other’s sentences and knew without words how each of us liked our coffee.
We lived in a cosy two-storey house with a small grass garden, which I constantly forgot to water. We had two cats who only acknowledged our existence when they were hungry. Our weekends consisted of pancakes, failed DIY projects, and Netflix series that we watched half-heartedly and barely remembered.
We went through things that either bring you closer together forever or tear you apart — health problems, two miscarriages, infertility, job losses. And we survived.
We always slept in the same bed, as spouses should. So when Ethan first went to sleep in the guest room, I didn’t think much of it.
One evening, he came in with a guilty smile and said:
‘Darling, I love you, but lately you’ve been snoring so loudly, it’s like there’s a lawnmower running in our bedroom. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.’
I laughed. I really laughed. I teased him for being so dramatic, and he kissed me on the forehead and took his pillow to the guest room, as if he were going on a short holiday. He said he just needed to get some proper sleep.
I wasn’t worried. I even joked in the morning that I could bring him breakfast in bed. He smiled — but didn’t laugh.
A week passed. Then another. The pillow remained in the guest room. Then his laptop and phone moved there too. And then he started locking the door at night.
That’s when everything became strange.
I asked him why he was locking the door, and he shrugged:
‘I don’t want the cats jumping around and knocking things over while I’m working.’
He wasn’t rude. He still hugged me in the mornings and asked how my day had gone. But it all seemed… as if he was playing a role. He was ticking boxes: ‘hugged,’ ‘asked,’ ‘kissed.’
He even started showering in the bathroom in the hallway instead of ours.
‘Don’t get worked up,’ he said, kissing me on the forehead. ‘I’m just trying to get more done at work.’
But there was something wrong with his voice.
One night I woke up around two. His side of the bed was cold. Light was coming from under the guest room door. I almost knocked, but stopped — I didn’t want to seem suspicious.
In the morning, he was gone. No breakfast, no kiss. Just a note: ‘Busy day. Love you.’
Every night it was the same thing:
‘You were snoring again, darling. I need a good night’s sleep. It’s temporary.’
He spoke as if he were doing me a favour.
I felt ashamed. I didn’t want to be the reason for his insomnia. I bought nasal strips, sprays, herbal teas, and even tried sleeping in a semi-sitting position. But, according to him, nothing helped.
He didn’t just sleep in the guest room. He lived there.
I started to go crazy. I doubted myself, my body, our intimacy. I even went to the doctor secretly. She suggested recording my sleep to check for snoring.
So I did.
I found an old tape recorder and turned it on for the night. In the morning, without brushing my teeth, I pressed ‘play’.
The first hour was silent. No snoring, no heavy breathing.
And then, at exactly 2:17 a.m., I heard footsteps. Not mine. Slow, careful footsteps. The creak of the guest room door. The sound of a chair being pulled back. A sigh. And… typing on a keyboard.
He wasn’t asleep.
Why did he lie?
The next evening, I set the alarm for two o’clock in the morning. When it went off, I went out into the corridor. The door was locked. The light was on. I remembered the spare keys I had hidden many years ago.
I opened the door just a couple of centimetres.
Ethan was sitting at the table. Around him were papers and food containers. On the screen were dozens of tabs. Letters, payment sites, messages. And a photo of a boy about twelve years old.
‘Ethan?’ I whispered.
He flinched.
‘Anna… I can explain.’
‘Explain.’
He turned his laptop around.
‘This is my son.’
My world seemed to collapse.
He told me everything. About a woman named Laura. About a child he didn’t know about. About the illness. About the paternity test. About working nights and the money.
‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ he said.
‘You lied to me,’ I replied. ‘Every night.’
Two weeks later, we met Caleb. He was a smart, awkward, kind boy. And I realised I wasn’t angry anymore.
That night, Ethan came back to our bed.
‘No more secrets,’ I said.
‘Never again,’ he replied.
And in the darkness, holding hands, we started over.
Because love isn’t just about comfort. It’s about honesty. Even when it hurts.
