When my husband told me he was going to a childhood friend’s funeral, I didn’t think twice about it. I trusted him. But just hours later, a trip to our country house revealed something so shocking, I still wish I could erase it from my memory.
Because there he was—my husband of twenty-one years—standing behind the shed with a gasoline can in his hands. And what he was trying to burn down… nearly set my whole world on fire.
I’m Alice, 46 years old, and until last Saturday, I thought I knew exactly what my life was. Jordan and I had a solid marriage, built over two decades of laughter, tears, and raising our kids.
We met when I was 25, in the cozy little bookstore downtown. I dropped an armful of recipe books, and suddenly this tall, warm-eyed man was kneeling beside me.
“Let me help you with those,” he’d said, smiling as he picked them up.
That same afternoon, we had coffee together. He made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt. We talked for hours. One year later, we were married in a small church, my mom crying happy tears, his father giving the most heartfelt toast.
We had two kids—Amy, who now lives in Oregon, and Michael, who just moved to Texas with his girlfriend. Our golden retriever Buddy still greeted us like a puppy every evening. We had Sunday cookouts, magical Christmas mornings, and the kind of dependable love that felt safe.
Or so I thought.
A month ago, Jordan came home looking tired, his voice quieter than usual.
“I need to drive upstate this weekend,” he said.
“What for?” I asked.
“Eddie’s funeral. You remember him from high school?”
I shook my head. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of Eddie.”
Jordan shifted in his chair. “We only stayed in touch online. Childhood friend. Cancer got him.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Want me to come with you?”
“No.” His answer came too quickly. “You didn’t know him. It would be awkward. I’d rather process this alone.”
Something about his tone tugged at me, but I didn’t push. “When will you be back?”
“Sunday evening,” he said, already planning to take his car.
Saturday morning was gray and drizzly. He kissed my cheek before leaving, suitcase looking barely packed.
“Drive safe,” I called.
“Sure,” he said, already reversing down the driveway.
The house felt too quiet without him, so I decided to visit our country house. We’d bought it for weekend escapes, but lately it was mostly storage for gardening tools and canning supplies. I figured I’d check on the vegetable garden and maybe bring Jordan back some fresh tomatoes.
It was a peaceful 45-minute drive—rolling hills, weathered barns—but when I pulled into the gravel driveway, my heart stopped cold.
Jordan’s car was there. Parked beside the shed.
I froze in my seat. My hands shook. “What the hell…?”
After a few minutes, I got out, calling into the empty house, “Jordan? Are you here?” But it was silent. His keys weren’t in sight.
Then I walked toward the back… and saw him.
He was behind the tool shed, pouring gasoline onto something on the ground. The sharp chemical smell hit me instantly.
“JORDAN?? What are you doing?”
He spun around, eyes wide, dropping the gas can. “ALICE? You—oh my God, you shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you! You’re supposed to be at a funeral! What is going on?”
He stepped sideways, trying to block my view. “It’s nothing. I stopped here on the way back. Just burning weeds. Ticks back here.”
But his hands were trembling as he pulled out a matchbox.
“Don’t you dare!” I shouted.
The match flared… and he dropped it.
The fire roared to life, flames leaping high, the heat slamming into my face.
I pushed past him, and that’s when I saw it—what he was really burning.
Photographs.
Hundreds of them.
I dropped to my knees, swatting out flames with my jacket. My palms burned, but I didn’t care.
The photos showed Jordan in a suit I’d never seen, standing beside a woman in a wedding dress. A woman with dark hair, smiling at him with the kind of love I thought was mine alone. In his arms was a baby boy with Jordan’s gray eyes.
There were more—Jordan pushing the boy on a swing. Christmas mornings. Birthday parties. Beach vacations. All with her. And him. And their child.
My chest squeezed until I could barely breathe.
“There was no funeral,” I whispered.
“Alice…”
“There was no Eddie.”
His face went pale. “Please… let me explain.”
“How long?”
“Nine years,” he said, sitting down like his legs couldn’t hold him. “Her name was Camille. Was.”
“Was?”
“She died two weeks ago. Car accident. A drunk truck driver hit them head-on.”
“Them?”
“Her… and Tommy. Our son. He was eight.”
The world tilted. My husband had been living another life for almost a decade.
“You had another wife?”
“Not married. But yes. Another family.”
“And you kept them secret from me.”
He nodded. “I visited once a month. Told you I was seeing my brother.”
“Your brother lives in California.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I lied about everything.”
I thought about every unexplained trip. Every “business conference.” Every late night at the office. Lies. All of it.
“Did you love her?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes. And I love you too.”
“It sounds sick,” I spat.
He told me he came here to burn their photos because he couldn’t stand to keep them after losing them both. But all I could think was that he’d been ready to erase them from my sight—not from his heart.
“You could have told me the truth,” I said.
“And lose you? Lose our kids? I couldn’t.”
“You already have.”
We drove home in separate cars. I barely made it without breaking down.
At home, he paced. “What happens now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you leaving me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t lose you too,” he said, eyes wet. “Not after losing them.”
The words twisted my stomach. Like I was some consolation prize.
“Don’t talk about them right now.”
“I have to grieve them,” he insisted. “They were my life for nine years.”
“Then where do we stand?”
He asked how to fix it. I told him I didn’t think he could.
“I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he said quietly. “Give you space.”
At the door, he turned back. “I’m sorry, Alice. I’m guilty… more than you’ll ever know.”
And then he was gone.
Now I sit here in a house that feels like it belongs to strangers. Some days I think about forgiving him. Other days, I imagine walking away and never looking back.
Right now, I don’t know which woman I’ll be—the one who stays and rebuilds… or the one who finally puts herself first after 21 years of being someone’s second choice.
Only time will tell.