I FOUND A PHONE NUMBER & A NOTE SAYING, “THIS IS BETWEEN US. NO ONE ELSE CAN KNOW,” IN MY HUSBAND’S COAT — I WAS BLUFFING WHEN I DIALED THE NUMBER TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF IT
Life was pretty good. I was happy in my marriage, my two kids were my world, and everything felt normal. But one ordinary morning, everything changed. The kids were busy playing with their toys in the living room, their laughter filling the air, while I decided to clean up the house. Denton, my husband, had already left for work, and before he did, he added an old coat to the donation pile by the door.
As I sorted through the pile, folding clothes and checking pockets out of habit, my fingers brushed against something in the coat. Curious, I reached in and pulled out a small, folded note. It wasn’t just any note. The handwriting was neat but had an urgency to it, as if the person was in a rush. When I read the words, a cold shiver ran down my spine:
“THIS IS BETWEEN US. NO ONE ELSE CAN KNOW.”
On the back of the note was a phone number.
I stared at it, frozen. My mind raced with questions. Who wrote this? Why did Denton have it? What could he possibly be hiding? I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the note was impossible to ignore. I slipped it into my pocket, my heart pounding. I tried to go about my day as usual, but my thoughts kept circling back to that note. Was my husband… keeping secrets?
That evening, I acted as normal as I could. Denton came home, kissed me on the cheek, and joined the kids in the living room. He laughed as he played with them, his voice full of warmth and joy, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. When he kissed me goodnight, I kissed him back, but inside, I felt like a stranger was sleeping beside me.
The next morning, after Denton left for work, I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the note and the number. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but I needed to find out. Taking a deep breath, I picked up the phone and dialed the number. My hands were trembling so much that I almost dropped the phone.
After a few rings, a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?” she said, her tone calm but firm.
My mind blanked. I had no plan, so I blurted out the first thing that came to me. “I’d like to book your services!” My voice was shaky, and I hoped she wouldn’t pick up on my nerves.
There was a brief pause before she replied, “If you have my number, you know the payment terms.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, as though she’d done this a hundred times before. Then she added, “Come tomorrow at 2 p.m.” She rattled off an address and hung up before I could say another word.
I stared at the phone in disbelief. What had I just agreed to? Was she some kind of… professional? My stomach churned, and my mind raced with possibilities. I knew one thing for sure: I had to go to that address. I had to find out the truth.
The next afternoon, I found myself stepping out of a taxi in front of an old brick building. It was exactly 2 p.m. My heart pounded as I climbed the stone steps leading to the entrance. The building looked nothing like I had imagined. There were no shady vibes, no dark alleys—just an unassuming, almost charming structure. I hesitated at the door, my hand hovering over the handle.
“This is not at all what I expected,” I thought, swallowing hard. But I couldn’t back out now. I opened the door and stepped inside.
Inside, the atmosphere was strangely welcoming. Soft music played in the background, and the scent of lavender filled the air. A woman in her mid-40s, with kind eyes and a professional demeanor, greeted me at the reception desk. “You must be here for the consultation,” she said with a warm smile.
“Uh, yes,” I stammered, trying to hide my confusion. Consultation? What was going on?
She gestured for me to follow her down a hallway. My heart raced as I walked behind her, trying to piece together what this could be. The hallway opened up into a cozy room with comfortable chairs and a table set with tea and biscuits.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, pouring tea into a delicate cup. “You’re here for a session about stress management, correct?”
I blinked. “Stress management?” I echoed, my voice filled with disbelief.
She nodded. “Many of our clients come to us through referrals. It’s a private service for those looking to address personal or emotional challenges. Did your husband Denton mention us?”
My jaw dropped. Denton? He referred me? “No,” I said slowly, my mind spinning. “I found your number in his coat pocket.”
The woman’s eyes softened with understanding. “Ah, that makes sense. Denton has been coming here for a few months. He’s been working through some personal challenges and wanted to keep it private. Perhaps he left the note unintentionally.”
Relief and confusion washed over me. So this wasn’t what I had feared. Denton wasn’t hiding an affair—he was seeking help. My heart ached at the thought of him struggling alone.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” I asked, more to myself than to her.
“Sometimes,” she said gently, “people need to process things on their own before they can share them. Perhaps he’s waiting for the right moment to open up to you.”
I left the building feeling a mix of emotions. The weight of suspicion was gone, replaced by a deeper understanding of my husband. That night, as I watched Denton play with the kids, I saw him in a new light. He wasn’t hiding from me—he was trying to be better for us. And for that, I loved him even more.
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