My husband and I always shared a bed like any normal couple — until he suddenly moved to the guest room “for his health.” He said, “Babe, I love you, but your snoring lately… I’m exhausted.” I laughed it off, a little embarrassed, but understanding. He seemed truly drained. I was more embarrassed than hurt. I tried everything — tea before bed, nasal strips, even sleeping upright, propped up with pillows. I bought a special pillow. I even considered a sleep study. Nothing changed. “Don’t take it personally,” he’d say, brushing my hand. “I’m finally sleeping again.” He looked rested, at least. That made me feel a little better, a little less guilty.
But then it got weird. He’d take his phone charger and laptop with him every single night. Not just for a bit, but they’d stay there. He started locking the door — said it was in case I sleepwalked. I never did, not once in our ten years together. He even showered in there. It wasn’t just sleeping in that room — he was living in it. A separate apartment, just down the hall. My heart started to ache, a dull throb that worsened with each locked door, each quiet shower behind a closed-off wall. Was this what marriage became? Two ships passing in the night, in the same house?
One night, around 2:30 a.m., I woke up. Reached over. Empty. Cold. Panic seized me. Where was he? Was he okay? My mind raced through a hundred terrible scenarios, none of which involved a comfortable night’s sleep. I crept down the hall, the silence oppressive, my bare feet cold on the wood. The guest room door, usually locked with a quiet click I’d learned to dread, was ajar. Just a crack. My breath hitched.
I pushed it open just a crack more, enough to see. The bedside lamp was on, casting a soft, yellow glow. And there he was, hunched over his laptop, his face illuminated by the screen. My stomach dropped. This was it. The other woman. The secret texts. The dating profile. I braced myself for the crushing weight of betrayal. My eyes darted to the screen, ready for the face of my replacement.
But it wasn’t a woman. It was a photo. A family. A younger woman, smiling, her arm around two small children. A boy and a girl. And nestled in the middle, smiling back at the camera with a warmth I hadn’t seen directed at me in months… was my husband. MY HUSBAND. My breath caught in my throat, a silent scream. Who were they? I squinted, trying to make sense of the scene, my mind reeling. On a split screen, next to the photo, was a calendar, meticulously color-coded. And then, I saw it. The tab open in his browser. Not a dating app. Not a social media profile. It was an airline booking site. One way. To a city I’d never even visited. His name, a different last name. A child’s ticket. Another child’s ticket.
He wasn’t tired of my snoring. He was tired of me. He was tired of this life. He hadn’t moved to the guest room for his health; he’d moved to prepare his escape. He’d been planning this for months, perhaps years, building an entire other life, a secret family, while I worried about nasal strips. The guest room wasn’t for sleeping. It was his control center. It was where he was building his new world. And I was just the final, inconvenient detail to be meticulously removed from the picture. I wasn’t just losing my husband. I was losing my entire reality. The cold realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. I didn’t snore. I was just in his way.
