When my husband said he joined a Saturday morning running group, I didn’t think much of it. He’d always been active, always looking for a new routine. He’d leave at 6 a.m., come home sweaty and smiling, smelling of that fresh morning air. Everything felt normal. More than normal, it felt good. He was happy, I was happy. Our life was a quiet, comfortable rhythm. Then one Thursday, he forgot his phone. It lay on the kitchen counter, an alien object out of place. He’d kissed me goodbye, headed for work, completely oblivious. It rang while I was folding laundry, a bright, insistent chirping that cut through the silence of the house.
I picked it up, automatically. It wasn’t like me to snoop, ever. A woman’s voice, hurried, anxious. “Is he on his way? The fever’s getting worse, I think he needs to go to urgent care.” My blood ran cold. “Excuse me?” I managed. There was a pause. A quick intake of breath. “Oh. Is this… his wife? I’m so sorry. I thought he was picking him up.” She hung up. Just like that. The line went dead, leaving an echoing silence that felt louder than a shout.
Him? Him who? Urgent care? My hands started to shake. It couldn’t be a wrong number. She knew his name. She knew my name. I swallowed the lump in my throat, opened his call log. No recent calls from unknown numbers. I scrolled back. A number, mostly blocked by other recent calls, stood out. It had been called frequently, always around 6:30 AM on Saturdays. Right when he was supposed to be running. My heart pounded, a frantic drum against my ribs. I felt a cold, sick certainty bloom in my stomach.
He came home that evening, whistling, his usual cheerful self. He didn’t even notice his phone was missing until I placed it on the table. “Oh, you found it! Thanks, love.” He leaned in for a kiss. I pulled back. My voice was a whisper. “Who is ‘he’?” His smile faltered. His eyes darted away, just for a second, but it was enough. THAT SPLIT SECOND SAID EVERYTHING. He mumbled something about a work colleague’s kid, a favor. A lie. I knew it was a lie.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The seed of doubt had taken root, choking everything else. I checked his phone again, late, while he snored softly beside me. No new calls to that number, but one text message remained, unread by him: “He’s asking for you. Please come soon.”
The next Saturday, I didn’t let him leave. I sat him down. I told him about the call, the text, the lies. His face drained of color. He started to cry, silent, racking sobs that shook his whole body. He confessed. Not another woman. NOT ANOTHER WOMAN, BUT ANOTHER LIFE. He wasn’t running. He was going to a small house on the edge of town, visiting his son. OUR SON. A child he’d conceived before we met, a secret he’d kept for TEN YEARS. The woman on the phone, the boy’s mother, was battling a terminal illness. She was dying. And he, my husband, was preparing to bring his son, our son, home. He’d been taking him to urgent care, taking him to the park, teaching him to tie his shoes, being a father in secret for TEN YEARS, all while I thought he was just out for a morning run. EVERY SWEATY SHIRT, EVERY HAPPY SMILE, WAS A LIE. He was sweaty from chasing a child, smiling from a morning of secret fatherhood. My world didn’t just crack, it shattered. I thought I knew him. I thought I knew us. I KNEW NOTHING.
