Have you ever had a gut feeling that something wasn’t quite right? I ignored mine for weeks. My husband, Eric, said he’d taken up jogging every morning, and I believed him.
But one morning, curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to follow him. What I found turned my world upside down. My husband Eric started his morning runs about a month ago.
At first, I thought it was great — he’s always working long hours at his business, and I knew he rarely had time for himself. I was actually proud of him. After all, isn’t that what we encourage our spouses to do?
To take care of themselves? Eric and I have been married for 14 years. We have two boys — Max, who’s 13, and little Stuart, who just turned 8.
On the surface, we were a picture-perfect family. Eric owned a small but successful business, and while we were not rolling in money, we were comfortable. I work part-time at a local boutique, and most of my free time is spent keeping the house running and wrangling the boys.
Life was good — or so I thought. But then I started noticing some… oddities. For one, Max kept asking Eric if he could join him on his morning jogs.
Max has always idolized his dad, and the idea of father-son bonding over a jog seemed like a no-brainer. But Eric kept shutting him down. Not just a simple “Maybe next time, bud,” but a firm, almost snappy “NO, MAX.
I WANT TO RUN ALONE.”
“I just want to spend time with you, Dad,” Max had pleaded one morning, his eyes wide and hopeful. The desperation in his voice made my heart ache. Eric’s jaw had tensed.
“Not now, Max,” he’d said. I remember Max’s confused face the first time Eric said it. “Why can’t I come with you, Dad?” he’d asked.
Eric ruffled his hair and mumbled something about needing his runs to clear his head. I didn’t think much of it back then, but looking back, I wish I’d paid closer attention. That night, I’d watched Eric carefully.
He’d been distant and distracted. When I tried to touch his arm, he flinched… something he’d never done in 14 years of marriage.
“Everything okay?” I’d asked. He’d smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Everything’s fine.” A lie so smooth, so practiced, it sent a chill down my spine.
A few days later, I started noticing “other” things. His gym clothes — normally tossed on the floor when he got home — were oddly spotless. His running shoes, which should’ve been scuffed and worn from all the “jogging,” looked almost brand new.
“Something isn’t right,” a voice inside me screamed. “Something is very, very wrong, Anna.”
My gut whispered that something wasn’t adding up. But instead of asking Eric outright, I decided to keep an eye on him.
Little did I know how much my world was about to change. One morning, I got up early, careful not to wake the boys. I stood by the window, watching as Eric laced up his pristine running shoes and grabbed his water bottle.
“Going for a run?” I asked casually, leaning against the doorway, my voice deliberately light. “Yep,” he said, barely glancing at me. The coldness in his tone was unmistakable.
I gave him a small smile, even though my stomach felt like it was tied in knots. “Be safe,” I whispered. He nodded and headed out the door, not looking back.
I waited a few minutes before grabbing my car keys and following him. My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel. “What am I doing?” The rational part of my mind screamed.
“This isn’t me. I’m not the type of woman who follows her husband.”
But something deeper and primal drove me forward. At first, everything seemed normal.
He jogged down the street, his pace steady and unremarkable. I stayed far enough behind so that he wouldn’t notice me. I was guilty but I had no choice.
After two blocks, he slowed down. Then, he turned down a quiet residential street. That’s when things got STRANGE.
Eric stopped in front of a modest blue house — nothing fancy, but well-kept. He glanced around, as if checking to see if anyone was watching, then pulled a key out of his pocket and let himself in. I sat in my car, FROZEN.
“What the hell?” I whispered to myself, a cold fear spreading through my veins. After a few moments, I got out and walked quietly up to the house. I felt ridiculous, like some kind of amateur detective, but I had to know what was going on.
My mind raced with a thousand possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. I peeked through the window, and my stomach dropped. There he was — my husband — wrapped around HER.
Lucy. His new secretary. The woman I’d welcomed into our home.
The woman I’d trusted. I watched in stunned silence as they kissed, laughing like two people without a care in the world. Their intimacy was casual and comfortable…
like this wasn’t a new affair. This was something that had been happening for a while. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures of them.
Betrayal burned through me like acid. Memories flashed: our wedding day, the births of our sons, and the quiet moments of shared laughter. I wanted to scream, barge in, and demand an explanation.
But I forced myself to stay calm and I stormed back to my car. “Not yet,” I told myself. “Not yet, Anna.
This isn’t the time for confrontation.”
My hands were trembling, and my face felt hot with anger. I couldn’t stop replaying what I’d seen — the way he touched her, the way he looked at her… the way they both…
Oh my God. “Fourteen years,” I thought. “Fourteen years reduced to this moment of betrayal.”
But I wasn’t going to fall apart.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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