For twelve years in a row, my husband Michael went on holiday as if it were part of a schedule that couldn’t be moved by a single day. Exactly one week. Always in July. And every time, the same vague explanation: ‘to the islands.’
And all these years, I stayed at home.
The scenario repeated itself almost word for word. At the end of spring, he would casually mention that ‘it’s almost time,’ scroll through ticket prices on his phone, take a small sports bag out of the closet, and calmly announce that he would be away for a week in July.
And I invariably asked the same question — more out of habit than hope:
‘Why can’t we go together this time?’
The answer never changed either:
‘It’s a family tradition. Mum doesn’t want to see “relatives from the other side” there. She’s always been like that.’
Sometimes the most disturbing lies sound mundane — as if they were about changing the oil or a work conference call.
At first, I tried not to complicate things. His mother, Helen, wasn’t rude to me. Rather, she was coldly polite: a smile without warmth, words without intimacy. I attributed it to her character, age, upbringing — anything, just so as not to turn family life into constant tension.
But as the years passed, the explanation began to seem less and less convincing.
One summer, I tried to say it gently, almost jokingly:
‘What about the children? Aren’t they family?’
Michael sighed wearily — the kind of sigh he usually used to end uncomfortable conversations.
‘I don’t want to spend the whole holiday running after them. This is a time to relax.’
It hurt me, although I didn’t let it show at the time. In July, he left again, and I stayed behind once more: schedules, clubs, camps, dinners, scrapes, bedtimes, endless little things that keep a house running.
A week without my partner turned into a mini-marathon of ‘getting everything done.’
I convinced myself that compromises were part of marriage.
But the feeling of exclusion grew, even though I tried not to notice it.
At the same time, Michael did not seem like a person capable of meanness. He was gentle, avoided conflict, and could not stand arguments and difficult conversations. For a long time, I considered this a sign of kindness.
Later, I realised that sometimes avoidance is not kindness, but a way of avoiding uncomfortable truths.
Suspicions crept in through small details. He never showed me photos from these trips. He was stingy with details. When asked, ‘Who was there?’ he would respond vaguely: ‘brothers,’ ‘parents,’ ‘family friends.’ Sometimes the new stories didn’t match the old ones — as if the story was being pieced together from random bits and pieces each time.
I dismissed it. People get confused. People forget. And I didn’t want to suspect the person I love.
Until this year came along.
Lies don’t always look like secret phone calls and whispers behind closed doors. Sometimes they look like habits.
A week before the next ‘July departure,’ I couldn’t sleep. The house was silent at night: the refrigerator hummed softly, and cars could be heard somewhere in the distance. I lay there and replayed twelve years in my head — twelve years where I was always ‘out of place,’ ‘not following the rules,’ ‘not one of those who should be around.’
And suddenly, a thought that sent a chill through me ceased to be just a fantasy:
What if he’s lying to me?
I tried to dismiss it immediately. Michael didn’t hide his phone. He didn’t stay out late. He didn’t change outwardly. He didn’t show the classic signs of a double life.
But is deception always loud and noticeable? Sometimes it’s quiet. Convenient. Familiar.
The next morning, when he left for work, I was left alone in the kitchen and held the phone in my hands for a long time, as if it weighed more than usual. I knew exactly who to call. And I knew exactly why I had been avoiding it for years: I was afraid to hear confirmation of what I already felt.
But it couldn’t go on like this.
I needed clarity, not guesswork.
I needed an answer from the person who was constantly being referred to.
I needed to reclaim my right to ask questions.
I called Helen.
She picked up on the third ring and was even happy to hear from me:
‘Oh! Hello, dear. Is everything all right?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I wanted to clarify something.’
‘Of course, ask away.’
My fingers were trembling, but I still said:
‘Why don’t you want Michael to take me and the children on a family holiday?’
Pause.
Then another one — longer, harder.
‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said cautiously. ‘What holiday are you talking about?’
It was as if the ground had fallen away beneath my feet.
‘The trip Michael goes on every year,’ I squeezed out. ‘He said it was a family holiday. And that you didn’t want anyone else to come along.’
This time the silence was thick, almost palpable.
‘My husband and I haven’t travelled anywhere together with our sons for over ten years,’ she said slowly. ‘We stopped taking those trips when Michael got married. Everyone started living their own lives. I thought he told you about it.’
In an instant, my familiar version of reality crumbled, leaving behind a void that demanded an answer.
All I could say was:
‘I see…’
Although in reality I didn’t understand anything.
We ended the conversation politely, even casually. But as soon as I hung up the phone, my strength seemed to leave my body. I sank into a chair at the kitchen table and stared at a single point.
If he wasn’t with his family… then where had he been spending those weeks for twelve years?
In the evening, Michael came home as usual…
Conclusion
Sometimes life doesn’t explode in a loud scandal — it changes with one simple question asked of the right person. For twelve years, I tried to be understanding and patient until I realised that calmness built on unspoken words does not make a relationship stronger. And when the truth begins to show through the usual explanations, there is only one thing left to do — stop being silent and look honestly at reality.
