I thought I really knew my husband and trusted him without any doubts. But then he started going somewhere every first Saturday of the month without telling me. I got curious and decided to follow him one rainy Saturday — and what I found out is something I still can’t bring myself to talk about.
Three years ago, Jeremy walked into a busy bookstore café, soaking wet and holding coffee after accidentally bumping into me. Back then, I never thought I’d end up here, doubting everything about our marriage.
He awkwardly tried to clean up the mess with napkins, blushing as he kept saying sorry. That silly moment felt like fate back then.
“I’m really sorry… let me get you another latte,” he said, smiling with kind eyes.
“Only if you promise not to spill this one too!” I joked.
Those first days together felt like something out of a dream.
Jeremy used to leave sweet handwritten notes in my work bag, dance with me in our small kitchen even if the food was burning, and hold me tight during storms because he knew they made me nervous.
He was everything I ever wanted — kind, caring, and the type of man who remembered my favorite flowers and brought me chamomile tea when I couldn’t sleep.
After a fast but happy year of dating, he proposed to me at the same spot where we first met, with a ring he had saved up for. Our wedding was simple but beautiful, shared with just our closest family and friends as we promised to spend our lives together.
Two years of marriage passed quickly, filled with dreams and quiet talks about the future. We had started discussing having kids, choosing names, and even planned to turn the extra room into a nursery soon.
I was ready to reduce my work hours at the marketing firm so we could focus on starting the family we both dreamed of.
But Jeremy had one strange habit that I never questioned — every first Saturday of the month, he would go somewhere and be gone for hours.
“Just running some errands, babe,” he’d say, kissing my forehead before leaving.
“Want me to come?”
“Nah, it’s boring stuff. I’ll grab some groceries on the way back.”
He always came home with market bags or baked goods, humming while he unpacked. Sometimes, he’d also disappear on random Sunday afternoons, saying the same thing:
“Helping my Aunt Lina with her garden. You know how she doesn’t like too many people around.”
I’d just smile and nod. I figured everyone needs a little space sometimes.
But last month, something felt different. Jeremy seemed nervous before his usual Saturday outing. He kept checking the time and barely touched his food.
“Mind if I come with you today?” I asked casually while drinking my coffee. “I’ve never really gotten to know your aunt.”
He dropped his fork. “What? No, Clover. You can’t—I mean, you shouldn’t come.”
“Why not? We’ve been married for two years, and I barely know your family.”
Jeremy stood up suddenly. “Because she doesn’t like you, okay? Aunt Lina thinks you’re too young for me and… too different. It’s just easier if you don’t come.”
He said it softly, like he was delivering bad news. He grabbed his keys and wallet but wouldn’t even look at me. The way he avoided giving a real answer hurt more than if he’d just told the truth.
“Jeremy, wait. Hey?”
But he was already gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen, tears in my eyes and a bad feeling in my gut.
I’d only met his aunt twice — once at our wedding, and once at a family BBQ. Both times, she was nice. So when did she decide she didn’t like me? And why hadn’t Jeremy ever told me before?
This month, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong. Jeremy had been acting distant for weeks—he barely talked during our conversations and jumped every time his phone buzzed. The man who once told me everything now felt like a stranger, living a life I wasn’t part of.
Three days before his usual Saturday disappearance, I made a decision I couldn’t take back. I ordered a small GPS tracker online and secretly attached it to his car while he was at work.
My hands were shaking—I felt like a spy in my own marriage. But I needed to know the truth. I had always trusted him without question, but now I needed answers.
Saturday morning came, gloomy and rainy. Jeremy hardly touched his coffee, his leg bouncing nervously under the table.
“I’ll probably be gone longer than usual today,” he said, still not looking me in the eye. “Aunt Lina has a big garden project.”
“Okay, honey. Drive safe.”
As soon as he left, I watched from the bedroom window, then grabbed my phone and opened the tracker.
For 30 long minutes, I watched the dot move away from Ashville, our quiet neighborhood, and head toward the edge of Cliffside County.
When the dot finally stopped, I grabbed my keys.
The address took me to a part of town I’d never been to—an old, rundown neighborhood with broken houses and messy yards. The rain poured steadily, like even the sky felt heavy.
Jeremy’s car was parked in front of a shabby two-story house. The windows were cracked, and the porch looked like it might fall apart at any moment.
The engine was off, and everything was silent—but the quiet felt deafening. I stared at the house, my nerves stretched thin. A part of me wanted to turn around, go home, and pretend this never happened.
But I couldn’t. Not anymore.
The cold autumn wind blew through the bare trees as I walked toward the front door, their branches like bony fingers reaching into the gray sky. Dry leaves crunched under my shoes, and somewhere far away, a dog let out a sad howl.
The house felt eerie, like it was staring at me through its dark, empty windows. I stepped up onto the creaky porch and knocked, my hand shaking.
I heard footsteps inside and held my breath. The door opened, and an older woman, probably in her 60s, stood there. She had kind eyes, gray hair in a loose bun, and wore a worn-out cardigan. She smiled at me warmly.
“Hello, dear. Are you here for the group?”
“I… yes,” I lied, not really knowing what she meant.
“Come in, come in. We’re just getting started.”
She led me into a living room that had been turned into a sort of meeting space. Folding chairs sat in a circle, soft music played in the background, and on the wall was a hand-painted sign that made my heart drop:
“Grief Counseling: For Those Who Lost a Spouse.”
And right there, in the middle of the circle, was my husband.
Jeremy held a framed photo tightly to his chest, his shoulders shaking as he cried.
I couldn’t see the picture clearly, but I could hear every word he said.
“It’s been three years since I lost Hannah,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Three years since cancer took the love of my life. Some days I still reach for her in bed… still expect to see her smile when I come home.”
People around him murmured their sympathy.
I stood frozen at the doorway, tears in my eyes—not because I was grieving, but because I was completely shocked and confused by what I was hearing.
Who was Hannah? Jeremy had never mentioned another wife. He told me I was his first real relationship, his first love, and the only one who mattered.
“She would’ve turned 32 next month,” he said, raising the photo. “We were planning to have kids. She’d already picked baby names… and dreamed about a house with a big backyard.”
The woman who let me in gently touched my shoulder. “Are you okay, honey? You look pale.”
Just then, Jeremy looked up—and saw me. The photo slipped from his hands and hit the floor. All the color drained from his face. For a long moment, we just stared at each other… me in complete shock, and him looking absolutely terrified.
“I… I need to step outside for a moment,” Jeremy mumbled to the group, quickly hurrying over to me.
“Take all the time you need,” the group leader said gently.
Jeremy grabbed my arm and pulled me outside, his grip so tight it hurt.
“Clover?? What are you doing here?” he hissed once we were alone on the porch.
I pulled my arm away, tears running down my face.
“I came to fix things with your aunt—but clearly, she doesn’t even live here, does she? What is going on, Jeremy? Who is Hannah?”
He ran his hands through his hair, pacing nervously.
“Clover, I can explain—”
“Explain what? That you’ve been lying to me our whole marriage? That you had a wife named Hannah who died? When were you going to tell me?”
“She’s not real!” he blurted, then lowered his voice, glancing back toward the house. “Hannah’s not real, okay? I made her up.”
I just stared at him, stunned.
“You made her up?”
Jeremy’s face fell.
“I’ve always wanted to be an actor, Clover. Ever since I was a kid, it’s all I wanted. But my parents pushed me into business school. They said acting was a waste of time and I’d never make it. So now… I go to these support groups to practice showing real emotion.”
“Practice?”
“I pretend to be different people—like today, a grieving husband. Last month, I went to an addiction support group and acted like a recovering alcoholic. There’s even a cancer group where I play someone with just months to live.”
I felt sick.
“Jeremy, these people are going through real pain. Real grief. And you’re treating it like a rehearsal?”
“It’s not a game,” he said quickly. “It’s helping me get better—more confident. I’m going to start auditioning for real roles soon. I just need more practice.”
I turned away and walked to my car, unable to face him any longer.
“Clover, wait!” he called after me.
But I couldn’t. The rain soaked through my clothes as I stumbled to the car, numb to the cold, weighed down by everything I had just discovered. I drove home in a fog, the sound of the rain tapping on the windshield like the doubts now flooding my mind.
That evening, Jeremy came home like nothing had happened—carrying a bag of groceries and a box of our favorite pastries. He placed them on the kitchen counter and stood silently for a moment.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he finally said.
I looked at the man I had married—someone I thought I knew—and felt something inside me completely fall apart.
“Don’t tell anyone that my husband lies to grieving people for fun?” I said.
“It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like, Jeremy? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like everything we’ve built is a lie. If you can fake pain like that and lie so easily, what else have you kept from me?”
He tried to answer, but I raised my hand to stop him.
“I need time.”
That was three weeks ago. He’s been sleeping in the guest room ever since, walking on eggshells around me like I might snap at any moment. He keeps trying to explain, keeps hoping to fix things. But I can’t bring myself to listen.
Because here’s what I keep thinking about:
Trust doesn’t just break—it shatters, like glass smashed against concrete. And even if you gather up every tiny piece and try to put it back together, it’ll never look or feel the same again.
So now I’m facing the hardest question of my life:
Is this marriage something I should fight for? Or have I just been one more role in Jeremy’s twisted performance?
Maybe some of you have gone through something like this. Maybe you know what it feels like when the person you trusted most turns into a stranger overnight.
If you do, I need your advice. Because right now, I truly don’t know what to do next.