My heart began to pound.

I forced a small laugh, the kind you use when you’re hoping there’s a simple explanation.

“Are you sure?” I asked gently. “He’s been driving up every Saturday since the stroke.”

Another pause. I could hear the faint ticking of a clock on his wall.

“Sweetheart,” Uncle Michael said softly, “I had the stroke in February. Darren came the week after. Brought flowers. Stayed an hour. That’s the last time.”

February.

It was August.

My hand tightened around the phone. I felt suddenly unsteady, like the floor had tilted beneath me.

We wrapped up the call with polite words that didn’t mean anything. I told him I’d visit soon myself. He sounded pleased.

When I hung up, the house felt different. Quieter. Colder.

For three months, every Saturday at 9 a.m., my husband had walked out that door with a kiss on my forehead and a reusable grocery bag in his hand.

If he wasn’t driving two hours north…

Where was he going?

That Saturday, I didn’t say a word.

At 8:55 a.m., Darren grabbed his keys. “Back by dinner,” he said, brushing his lips against my cheek.

“Drive safe,” I replied, steady as I could manage.

I waited thirty seconds after the door closed. Then I picked up my own keys.

My hands were shaking so badly I had to sit in the car for a moment before turning the ignition.

He didn’t head north.

He turned south.

I kept three cars between us.

Twenty minutes later, he exited into a part of town I rarely visited — new developments, tidy lawns, identical mailboxes. Not exactly the direction of a lonely farmhouse two hours away.

He pulled into the driveway of a small, pale-blue house.

And then I saw her.

A woman in her early thirties stepped onto the porch before he even knocked, like she’d been watching for him. She was barefoot. Comfortable. Expecting him.

She smiled the kind of smile that isn’t casual.

Darren smiled back.

The front door opened wider.

And a little boy — maybe four years old — ran out, shouting, “Daddy!”

The word hit me like a physical blow.

Daddy.

Darren scooped him up with the ease of practice, kissing the top of his head. The woman leaned in, touching Darren’s arm like she belonged there.

Like they belonged together.

I couldn’t breathe.

Three months.

Every Saturday.

Not groceries. Not cleaning.

A family.

I don’t remember driving home.

I just remember sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the clock. Waiting.

When he walked through the door at 6:12 p.m., he looked tired — convincingly tired.

“How’s Uncle Michael?” I asked.

He set down the grocery bag. It was full this time. Props.

“He’s better,” Darren said. “Still weak, but improving.”

I studied his face.

I had loved that face for eight years.

“Funny,” I said quietly. “Because I spoke to him this week.”

He froze.

Not dramatically. Just a fraction of a second too long.

“Oh?”

“He says he hasn’t seen you in six months.”

The silence between us stretched thin and sharp.

Darren’s shoulders dropped.

And just like that, the man I thought I knew seemed to collapse inward.

“It’s not what you think,” he started.

But I already knew exactly what I thought.

“What is his name?” I asked.

Darren blinked. “What?”

“The little boy. What’s his name?”

The color drained from his face.

And in that moment, I realized something worse than the lie.

This hadn’t started three months ago.

This had been going on long enough for a child to call him Daddy without hesitation.

Long enough for Darren to live two lives.

I stood up slowly.

“You don’t get to lie to me again,” I said. “So choose your next words carefully.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Darren looked afraid.

And I realized — whatever he said next would decide whether I was losing a husband…

Or finally seeing the truth about the man I married.