Harold had always loved his garage — his little escape after long days at work. I never questioned it. But when I discovered he was keeping something hidden in there, I had no choice but to find out the truth.
I always believed my marriage was solid as a rock. Twenty years together, weathering storms, celebrating victories, building a life — Harold and I were a team. At least, that’s what I thought.
But lately? Something felt…off. It started small.
Harold had always loved his garage, his little kingdom of grease and solitude. After work, he’d disappear in there for hours, tinkering with his motorcycle, fixing God knows what. “Sara,” he’d say with a casual grin, wiping his hands on an old rag, “it helps me clear my mind.”
I never questioned it.
Until I had to. Because lately, Harold wasn’t just tinkering. He was hiding.
He was distant. Distracted. Even when he was physically present, his mind was somewhere else.
And then there was the biggest red flag of all. He started locking the garage. Every.
Single. Night. “Since when do you lock the garage?” I asked casually one evening as he turned the key.
He didn’t even glance at me. “Just don’t want anyone messing with my tools.”
“Who would? It’s just us here.”
“Teenagers,” he said, too quickly.
“You never know.”
It was a flimsy excuse. And I knew it. So one afternoon, when Harold was at work, I finally caved.
I went into his office, pulled open the second drawer, and found the spare key exactly where he always kept it. My hands were shaking as I gripped the metal, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I hesitated at the garage door, swallowing hard.
Do I really want to do this? The answer came when I turned the key and stepped inside. And that’s when my stomach dropped.
The workbench, and the floor — all covered in photos. Dozens of them. The same woman.
Over and over again. Young and beautiful. I bent down and picked one up with trembling fingers.
My breath caught in my throat. “Oh my God.”
Who was she? And why was my husband obsessed with her?
I could have confronted him right then and there when I found those photos. I could have screamed, cried, and demanded answers. But something in me hesitated.
Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was denial. Maybe I just wasn’t ready to hear the truth.
So instead, I watched. That night, Harold came home as usual. He kissed my forehead, asked about my day, and ate dinner with me like everything was normal.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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