The Guest Room
For most of our marriage, Jason and I shared the same bed. Like most couples do.
I used to fall asleep to the soft sound of him typing at night or flipping through book pages while he read. Some mornings, we’d wake up in a tangle of arms and blankets, warm and sleepy, and he’d say something like,
“You drooled on me again,” with a grin.
I’d laugh and shove him playfully.
“You love it.”
That was us. Not perfect, but real. We were close. We were together.
So when he first mentioned sleeping in the guest room, I thought he was joking.
One night, while brushing his teeth, he looked at me and said,
“Maya, I love you… but, babe, I’ve been waking up completely drained. Your snoring? It’s… next level.”
I laughed while rinsing my face.
“Are you serious? You’ve made bear jokes about my snoring for years! Now it’s suddenly a problem?”
He gave me a soft smile and shrugged.
“I just need solid sleep. Just for a bit. Work’s been crazy lately—I need to recharge.”
I was still towel-drying my hair when I noticed it. A small overnight bag, sitting on the bed. That surprised me. He said it was temporary… but he packed like he was staying for a week.
Still, I brushed it off. Jason had always been particular. He had a whole routine at night—his eyedrops, his vitamins, that terrible-smelling cramp spray.
So that night, he moved into the guest room. No big fight. No serious talk. Just… gone.
At first, I wasn’t hurt. I was embarrassed.
I downloaded sleep apps. I ordered every herbal tea with names like Dream Whisper and Silent Moon, each one claiming to give you a peaceful, snore-free night.
I even wore those stiff, painful nasal strips that left bright red marks on my face. I tried sleeping upright, surrounded by pillows like some ghostly bride from the 1800s, doing everything I could to fix me.
Still, Jason stayed in the guest room.
One morning, while we had coffee and bagels, he said,
“Don’t take it personally, Maya. I’m just finally getting good sleep.”
But it wasn’t just about sleep anymore.
Each night, he brought his phone charger and laptop with him. Then he started locking the door.
“It’s just in case you sleepwalk or something,” he said one morning.
I stared at him.
“What? I don’t sleepwalk.”
He shrugged, taking a bite of his toast.
“Well, you never know. Better safe than sorry.”
It made no sense. A week later, he was fully moved in. He showered in the guest bathroom. His razor, shampoo, cologne—everything—was gone from our bathroom.
He wasn’t just sleeping in there. He was living in there.
I told myself it was a phase. Marriage goes through changes, right? Things stretch. They bend. People get stressed. Maybe he really was just tired.
But something inside me whispered: Something isn’t right.
Then, one night… everything changed.
It was around 2:30 in the morning. I woke up in that strange, half-dream panic you get when something feels wrong. The room was quiet. Too quiet. I reached for Jason and touched cold sheets.
“Get a grip, Maya,” I whispered to myself. “You’re overthinking. Fix your head.”
As I sat up in bed, Jason’s phone lit up on the nightstand. That was strange. He never left it behind anymore.
I leaned over. Maybe he forgot it while getting clothes ready for work.
Then, the screen lit up again.
“Can you call me when she’s asleep? – Lana”
I felt like the ground fell out beneath me.
Lana? Who was Lana?
Why did she know I was supposed to be asleep?
What were they talking about at 2:30 in the morning?
I didn’t want to know… but I had to know.
I walked down the hallway. Each step felt like it echoed through the house. The light from the guest room spilled into the dark hallway. The door was unlocked. I leaned in.
Jason sat at the desk, wearing a headset, staring at his laptop. He was smiling. Whispering.
“No, she thinks it’s the snoring,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I told you—she has no clue.”
I stepped back, my chest tight, heart hammering. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even speak.
Not yet.
“Let’s figure this out properly,” I told myself in the dark. “Be smart.”
The next morning, I acted normal. I made eggs and bacon. I kissed his cheek like nothing had changed.
“I’m heading to the office for a few hours,” Jason said. “Then I’ll work from home. I’ll grab lunch on the way.”
“Sounds good,” I replied, sipping coffee. “I’ve got campaign videos to edit.”
He didn’t even acknowledge it. Jason never respected my job in marketing.
“You could do so much more, Maya,” he’d once told me. “Something that actually brings in real money.”
But what Jason didn’t know was that last night, while he whispered sweet nonsense to Lana, I backed up his phone to our shared cloud.
I sat on the couch, laptop in hand, ready to uncover whatever truth he was hiding.
At first, the messages weren’t what I expected. They weren’t romantic. No flirting. No dirty talk.
But they were constant. Obsessive. Every day, dozens of texts.
“Am I doing okay, Lana?”
“Is this what I should say on the next call?”
“Will this be the one that makes me go viral?”
There were voice notes, documents, spreadsheets, even video links. Jason had paid her nearly $19,000 for what she called a “coaching program” to help him become an online millionaire.
Lana called herself a “business mentor.” Her programs promised to teach “closing energy” and “sales psychology.” But it looked like a scam. Like the last one.
I remembered the last time Jason fell for this kind of thing—buying boxes of “liquid gold” face serums.
He was crushed when they didn’t sell.
“I don’t get it, Maya,” he said. “The proposals were perfect. They had to work.”
“We’re not keeping all this junk in the garage,” I’d told him.
Now, two years later, here we were again. Another scheme. Another illusion.
In one message, Lana told him to visualize “next-level abundance” while journaling about his “money blockages.”
And Jason? He bought all of it.
“No, she doesn’t ask questions,” he texted her. “She just thinks I’m tired. I’ll show her when the checks start coming. She’ll thank me later.”
My hands shook as I read that.
He didn’t move rooms because of me. He did it to hide the truth.
That night, I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. I didn’t break things.
I waited. Dinner was grilled chicken with guacamole. Jason poured himself a glass of whiskey, as if everything was fine.
Once he took his first bite, I looked him in the eye.
“I found the messages,” I said. “With Lana.”
He froze. Then blinked. And smiled.
“You weren’t supposed to see that.”
That was all. No apology. No guilt.
“I did this for us, Maya,” he said, swirling his glass. “You don’t get high-level strategy. It’s not your fault—you just wouldn’t understand.”
I set my fork down. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just final.
I wanted to scream at him. Remind him of our honeymoon, when we shared ramen noodles in a tiny apartment and laughed at burnt toast. But instead, I said:
“No. I do get it. You didn’t trust me. You locked me out, gambled our future, and left me alone in the dark.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be dramatic, Maya.”
The way he said my name… like I was a little girl whining. Like I didn’t matter.
“You lied to my face for months.”
“I didn’t lie,” he said. “I just didn’t tell you.”
That was it. The final straw.
Not the money. Not even the guest room.
It was how small he made me feel. Like I was a child. Like I didn’t deserve the truth.
Two weeks later, I filed for divorce.
He didn’t fight it. Maybe he thought he’d win me back once the money came in. Once his “empire” exploded.
But the only thing that exploded was Lana’s website. One day, it vanished. No refund. No apology. No empire.
A month later, Jason texted me.
“Hope you’re well. I found a new mentor. This one’s different. A real opportunity.”
I blocked him.
Now? The guest room is mine.
I painted the walls sage green. I bought a secondhand bookshelf and filled it with poetry and paperbacks. I light expensive candles just for me. I hang a little wind chime near the window. It sings when the breeze comes.
There are no secrets in my walls anymore.
Yes, I snore. Loud sometimes. But no one moves away from me. No one lies to me. No one locks me out.
Last week, at the bookstore, a man asked about a poetry book I was holding. We talked for thirty minutes—about words, about life, about getting back on your feet.
No flirting. No pressure. Just presence.
When he left, I stood in the poetry aisle a little longer, holding that book like it might save me.
Maybe it did.
Because for the first time in a long time, I felt something bloom.
Not hope. Not love. Not even closure.
Just peace.
I sleep alone now.
Door open.
Phone off.
Dreams light and free.
