I thought I knew everything about my husband after fifteen years of marriage. But when he started talking in his sleep, I heard something that made me follow him the next morning, and what I discovered left me speechless. After fifteen years of marriage, it’s hard to surprise each other.
Matt and I had seen every side of one another.
There was comfort in that, the calm of knowing someone so well you could finish their thoughts. We’d built a quiet, stable life with our daughter Lily, whose teenage chaos filled the house.
But lately, something had shifted. It wasn’t one thing, just small changes that grew too big to ignore.
Matt came home late, stayed glued to his phone, and stopped talking at dinner.
And then, one day, he changed his passcode. The same four digits he’d used for ten years — our wedding date — were suddenly replaced with something else. That hit harder than I expected.
He didn’t explain, just acted like it meant nothing.
But it did. That evening, as I cleared the table, I watched him pacing by the window, frowning at his screen.
When I asked what was wrong, he muttered something about a “work emergency,” grabbed his keys. And just like that, he was gone.
I stood in the quiet kitchen.
Lily was sprawled on the couch, headphones in, watching a show on her tablet. I walked over and sat next to her. “Doesn’t your dad seem…
off to you lately?” I asked.
She pulled out one earbud. “Off how?”
“I don’t know.
Different. Nervous maybe.”
“He’s just busy, Mom.
You worry about everything.”
I smiled faintly.
“If we wore clown costumes, you’d still say everything’s fine.”
Lily rolled her eyes and put her earbud back in. I sat there for a moment, then went to the kitchen to make tea, just to keep busy. Maybe it was all in my head.
Maybe work really was that bad.
But the uneasy feeling wouldn’t fade. If he was hiding something… or someone, I told myself Lily and I would manage.
We still had my mom’s old house, the one she left to Lily. It was worn out, but it was ours.
I went upstairs, half-listening for his car.
It never came. Eventually, I fell asleep on top of the blanket, the lamp still on. I woke up to a strange sound in the middle of the night.
At first, I thought it was the wind rattling the window, but then I realized it was coming from the other side of the bed.
Matt was talking. It was just mumbling, low, incoherent words, like whispers slipping out between breaths.
I blinked in the dark, trying to understand what he was saying, but it didn’t make sense. “Matt?” I whispered.
He didn’t move.
I leaned closer, my heart starting to race a little. He was still asleep, his eyes closed, his face calm, but his lips kept moving. Fifteen years together, and I had never once heard him talk in his sleep.
The next morning, after breakfast, when Matt went upstairs to get dressed for work, I followed him.
As he buttoned his shirt, I said, “You were talking in your sleep last night.”
“And?”
“And I read that it could be a sign of stress,” I said. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“It never happened before,” I said quietly.
“Fifteen years, and not once.”
He gave a short laugh. “Maybe I’m just getting old, Nat.”
“It’s not just that.
You’re tense all the time, you come home late, you keep your phone glued to your hand, and you changed your password.
What’s going on with you?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not trying to say anything,” I said quickly. “I’m asking. You’ve been acting different, and I just want to know why.”
“There’s a lot going on at work.
That’s all.
Big deadlines, long hours. I’m tired, that’s it.”
I nodded slowly, pretending to believe him.
He kissed me on the forehead, a gesture that felt automatic, and left the room without another word. The sound of the front door closing echoed through the house.
I wanted to believe it was just stress, but something about the way he avoided my eyes made that impossible.
When he finally came home that night, he barely greeted me before heading straight to the shower. His tie hung loose, his shoulders slumped. I wanted to stop him, ask where he’d been, but my throat tightened instead.
His jacket lay draped over the chair, and through the pocket fabric, I saw a faint glow.
The phone. He’d left it there.
Before I could stop myself, I reached into the pocket and pulled his phone out. The screen lit up with a new message.
I couldn’t read it, the phone was locked, but the name on the notification made my stomach twist.
Emma. My best friend. For a moment, everything around me went silent.
My fingers shook as I tried to guess the passcode, my mind racing through every combination it could be.
I was about to try again when I heard a voice behind me. “Mom, what are you doing?”
I froze.
Lily was standing in the doorway, holding a glass of water. “Nothing,” I said too quickly.
She frowned.
“That’s Dad’s phone.”
“I know. I just—” I stopped, realizing how guilty I sounded. “Mom,” she said.
“That’s wrong.
You should put it back.”
I wanted to tell her that she didn’t understand, that this was different, that sometimes adults had to know the truth no matter how ugly it was. But I couldn’t say it.
Lily crossed her arms and waited. With a shaky breath, I put the phone back into Matt’s jacket.
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