We’ve been married two years, and every first Saturday of the month, my husband vanishes for a few hours. ‘Running errands,’ he says, or ‘Helping my aunt.’ I never questioned it—he’d come home with groceries or a bakery bag. But last month, I asked to tag along. His face tensed. ‘You know my aunt doesn’t really like you, so it’s better you don’t come,’ he muttered before driving off. I barely spoke to his aunt but never felt any hostility.
So this month, I tucked a GPS tracker under his car and followed him.
He drove 30 minutes out of town to a run-down house and rushed inside. I knocked. The tears appeared in my eyes when the door opened and I saw a woman holding a baby who looked just like my husband.
My heart dropped into my stomach. She looked startled to see me. “Can I help you?” she asked quietly, shifting the baby on her hip. I just stared at the baby’s dark eyes, identical to my husband’s. I tried to breathe. My voice cracked when I finally found the words. “I’m his wife. Who are you?”
She blanched and stepped back. “I’m…I’m Soraya. You’re his wife?” The baby whimpered, and she bounced him gently. She looked torn between slamming the door and inviting me in. I stepped forward before she could decide.
