Chapter 1: The Man Who Never Left Our Bed
After 31 years of marriage, my husband started leaving our bed in the middle of the night to sleep in the guest room "because of his back"—then at 2 A.M., I heard him whisper, "Daddy loves you too," even though our children had moved out years ago.
When I hurried downstairs, I went pale at what I saw.
For thirty-one years, Greg and I had slept beside each other.
Our marriage wasn't perfect.
We'd survived layoffs, two teenagers, and the year Greg worked nights so we wouldn't lose the house.
But even after our worst arguments, he never chose another room.
So when I woke at 2:17 A.M.
and found his side of the bed empty, I wasn't suspicious.
The next morning, Greg rubbed his lower back.
"The guest-room mattress is firmer.
I finally got some sleep down there."
He was fifty-six.
I believed him.
Then it happened again.
Some nights at one-thirty.
Some closer to three.
I'd wake as Greg quietly got up, took his pillow, and slipped downstairs.
By morning, he was back beside me.
"Go see a doctor," I finally said.
He smiled.
"Laura, I'm getting old.
That's the diagnosis."
Then I noticed the blue knitted blanket my mother had made when our son Michael was born was gone.
Greg had kept that blanket through three moves.
"Have you seen it?"
His hand stopped halfway to his coffee.
"I think I donated it by mistake."
"You?
The man who wouldn't let me throw away Michael's kindergarten lunchbox?"
He didn't laugh.
"It got mixed in with some things."
We hadn't donated anything in months.
That was the first time in thirty-one years I knew my husband was lying to me.
Three nights later, I woke at 2:04 A.M.
His side of the bed was empty.
I stayed still and listened.
Then Greg's voice drifted up the stairs.
Soft.
Tender.
The same voice he'd used when our children woke from nightmares.
"It's okay, sweetheart."
My heart started pounding.
Then:
"Daddy loves you too."
I sat straight up.
Then I noticed Greg's phone glowing on the charger beside me.
Michael was thirty and living overseas.
Emma was twenty-eight and lived three states away.
Neither had children.
So who was Greg talking to downstairs?
There was no one in our house who should have been calling my husband Daddy.
I slipped out of bed.
Then I heard the deadbolt turn downstairs.
Click.
The back door opened.
A few seconds later, it closed again.
I ran down barefoot.
The guest-room door was wide open.
Greg wasn't inside.
But the rocking chair we'd used for both our babies was moving gently back and forth.
Then the porch light came on.
I pulled back the kitchen curtain...
and went pale at what I saw.
Greg was kneeling in the backyard in his pajamas.
With one arm, he clutched something wrapped in Michael's blue baby blanket against his chest.
With the other, he was digging a hole in the flower bed.
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*What was Greg hiding in that blanket — and why was he burying it at 2 A.M.?
Comment "NEXT" if you want Part 2 in the comments.*
