When my husband said he was going to a childhood friend’s funeral, I believed him. But a trip to our country house that same day revealed something I wish I’d never seen—Jordan, standing behind the shed with a gas can, trying to burn something that would destroy my world.
I’m Alice, 46, and last Saturday shattered everything I thought I knew about my 21-year marriage.
Jordan and I met in a downtown bookstore when I was 25. He helped me pick up dropped recipe books, took me for coffee, made me laugh until my ribs hurt.
A year later we married in a small church. Two kids, a golden retriever, Sunday cookouts, Christmas mornings—it was a steady, safe love.
Or so I thought.
Last month, Jordan came home looking weary.
“I need to drive upstate this weekend,” he said. “Eddie’s funeral. Childhood friend.”
I didn’t recall him ever mentioning an Eddie.
When I offered to come, he refused quickly—too quickly.
Saturday was gray and drizzly when he left. By afternoon, I decided to visit our country place, thinking I’d tend the garden. But when I pulled up the gravel drive, my heart stopped—Jordan’s car was there.
I called for him in the house. Silence. Then I spotted him behind the shed, pouring gasoline over something on the ground.
“JORDAN? What are you doing?”
He jumped, panicked, muttering something about burning weeds. His hands trembled as he struck a match.
The fire flared high, heat slamming into my face. I shoved past him, stamping out the flames—and froze.
Scattered in the ashes were photographs. Jordan in a suit, smiling beside a dark-haired bride I didn’t know. Holding a baby with his same gray eyes. Christmas mornings in a strange living room. Birthday parties. Beach vacations. A little boy growing from toddler to eight years old.
All with my husband.
“There was no funeral,” I said.
He looked pale. “Her name was Camille. She died two weeks ago. Car accident. Our son, Tommy, too. He was eight.”
My world tilted. “You had another life?”
“For nine years,” he admitted. “It started as meetings. Then she got pregnant. I visited once a month. Told you I was visiting my brother.”
I thought of every trip, every conference, every late night. Lies.
“Did you love her?”
“Yes. And I love you too. I know it sounds impossible.”
I laughed bitterly. “You destroyed two families.”
“They’re gone,” he said, grief in his voice. “I just… couldn’t keep their pictures anymore.”
We drove home separately. I sat on the porch while he paced the driveway.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I still love you, Alice. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“You don’t.”
“But I need you. I can’t lose you too.”
His words made my stomach turn. Like I was some consolation prize.
“What about me, Jordan? Our kids?”
He sat close. “How do I fix this?”
“I don’t think you can.”
I thought of the fallout—our children devastated, the life we built in pieces.
“I need time,” I said.
“How much?”
“Maybe forever. Maybe until I can see you without picturing those photos.”
He agreed to sleep in the guest room. At the door he turned back.
“I know sorry isn’t enough. But I am sorry. More than you’ll ever know.”
Now the house feels foreign. Some days I think about forgiving him. Other days, I want to burn it all down myself.
Maybe love survives this kind of betrayal. Maybe it doesn’t.
I’m still deciding whether to be the woman who stays and rebuilds—or the one who finally puts herself first after 21 years of being someone’s second choice.