Every Time My Husband ‘Works Late,’ He Ends up at the Same Address – So I Drove There Myself

At first, I ignored it. But as the pattern continued, doubt crept in.

For weeks, anxiety built inside me like a storm gathering strength. If this was just a delivery, why was he staying there so long? What could require so many visits?

My mind spiraled with terrible thoughts. Was he cheating? Did he have a second family? I tried to rationalize it, but the doubt gnawed at me like a hungry animal.

Eventually, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

The next evening, as I watched his location stop at the house again, I grabbed my keys and drove.

My hands gripped the wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. My stomach twisted into knots the closer I got, and my heart pounded like it wanted to escape my chest.

When I finally pulled up in front of the house, I sat there for a long moment, staring at it.

The house was modest but well-kept, warm light glowing from behind curtained windows. A home. Not the seedy motel I had half-expected.

But I couldn’t turn back now. I forced myself out of the car and walked up to the door. Each step felt like I was walking through molasses.

I knocked. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, the door creaked open.

Two small children stood there.

My body went rigid. My heart nearly stopped.

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