I felt alive after that night.
Not reckless or careless—just alive in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. As though I had reclaimed something that had quietly slipped away while I wasn't paying attention. June no longer felt like a looming shadow or a threat standing at the edge of my marriage. She was nothing more than a woman bruised by rejection, wounded by loss, and desperate enough to claw at what no longer belonged to her.
That was how I chose to see her.
A pained, miserable woman who wanted to drag me into her chaos.
I resolved, firmly and deliberately, not to allow it. Not to allow her. Not to allow doubt or fear or insecurity to take root in my heart again. My marriage mattered too much. Albert mattered too much.
And Albert—God—Albert had been everything I needed him to be.
He became attentive in ways that felt intentional. He called me while I was at work just to hear my voice. He sent flowers on random afternoons with handwritten notes that made my heart flutter. He showed up with gifts—small things, thoughtful things. He took me out on dates the way he used to when we were first falling in love, holding my hand across restaurant tables, brushing his thumb against my knuckles as though reassuring me that he was right there.
Present.
Mine.
I landed a new job around that time, one that allowed me to work from home, and it felt like another blessing stacked gently on top of the others. Life seemed to be aligning again. I woke each morning with a sense of purpose, gratitude humming quietly beneath my skin.
Things were going well for me.
Or so I thought.
Albert never left the house without telling me where he was going. That alone gave me comfort. He announced his movements casually, naturally, as though transparency had become second nature to him. Yet, I couldn't ignore the subtle change that crept in alongside the calm.
He was always on his phone.
Always.
It was in his hands during breakfast, resting beside his plate. In the living room, his fingers moved swiftly across the screen while the television played unnoticed in the background. Even in bed, his phone often sat closer to him than I did, lighting up his face in the dark with soft, persistent notifications.
Chatting.
Constantly. Consistently.
I noticed—but I said nothing.
I told myself he had done nothing to deserve suspicion. That trust meant restraint. That marriage required faith even when questions whispered quietly in your mind. I had already feared a broken marriage once, and that fear had nearly consumed me.
But what terrified me more than a broken marriage was the thought of losing my husband to June.
That fear sat deeper.
Heavier.
So I swallowed my unease and carried on.
Just when I thought peace had finally settled into our home, Albert started working late hours.
It began subtly—an extra hour here, a delayed dinner there. At first, I didn't question it. He was the director, after all. Responsibility came with the role. But soon, the late nights became frequent. Predictable.
Routine.
It was strange because Albert didn't need to do so much. He delegated easily. He had always valued balance. When I asked, his explanations felt thin—meetings that ran longer than expected, paperwork that piled up, sudden issues that required his attention.
Flimsy excuses wrapped in calm reassurance.
Still, he left the house every morning the same way and returned looking no different than when he had left. No scent of unfamiliar perfume. No visible guilt. No cracks I could point to.
So I told myself I had nothing to suspect.
To distract myself, I decided to return to the gym. It had been a long while, and I needed something that was mine. Something that reminded me of strength—of control. The workouts helped at first. They filled the hours. They burned away restlessness.
But as weeks passed, boredom crept in.
Albert was now working extra shifts almost full time, and the house felt emptier than it should have. The silence became louder. Lonelier. Evenings stretched endlessly, and the walls seemed to echo with thoughts I didn't want to entertain.
I missed him.
I missed us.
One night, as I lay awake staring at the ceiling, a thought settled gently into my mind, warm and hopeful.
A baby.
It felt natural. Right. Like the next step we had been circling without naming. I decided to talk to him about it when he returned from work.
That evening, after Albert had his bath and settled onto the bed, I gathered my courage.
"I've been bored lately," I began softly.
He glanced at me briefly before his eyes returned to his phone. "Bored?" he asked. "What about work? The gym? The house?"
"I do all of that," I replied carefully, "but it's lonely."
He nodded absently, fingers still moving. "What do you suggest?"
I watched him for a moment, then whispered, "I want a baby."
That did it.
Albert looked up immediately, his fingers freezing mid-air. "You want a baby?" he repeated slowly, as though testing the weight of the words.
"Yes," I said. "I do."
"Not now, Susan." His tone was firm, final. "We're still trying to figure out a lot of things."
"It's been two years, Albert," I said, emotion creeping into my voice. "Two solid years. What exactly are we still figuring out?"
He sighed. "This isn't the best time."
"We're married," I insisted. "We should have a baby."
He hesitated, then shook his head. "Not now, Susan. The baby can come later. I'm not ready."
The words stung.
"I can't continue like this," I sobbed quietly. "It's so lonely here."
"Take a walk," he said dismissively. "Go to the gym. Sing. Dance. Do anything—but not a baby."
His words felt like a door slamming shut.
"Albert, please," I pleaded. "Just one child. I won't ask for more."
But his mind was already made up.
Silence followed as he lay down, placing his phone carefully beside him like something precious. I stared at him, at the familiar lines of his face, searching for something I couldn't name.
When he closed his eyes, sleep refused to come to me.
The urge came suddenly—sharp and undeniable.
I waited.
Listened to his breathing deepen.
Then slowly, carefully, I crept from the bed, lifted his phone, and tiptoed back to my side.
My hands trembled as I tried to unlock it.
And then my eyes widened in disbelief.
Albert had changed his password.