When my husband told me he was going to a childhood friend’s funeral, I didn’t doubt him for a second. Twenty-one years of marriage had taught me to trust him… or so I thought.
But that afternoon, one unexpected trip to our country house changed everything. I walked into a scene that will haunt me for the rest of my life: my husband, standing behind the shed, holding a gasoline can… trying to burn something I wish I had never seen.
My name is Alice. I’m 46 years old. And last Saturday shattered every belief I had about the life I thought I was living.
Jordan and I had the kind of love you could build a life on—not flashy, not dramatic, but steady and safe. We met when I was 25, in a small downtown bookstore. I was juggling too many cookbooks when they slipped from my hands, scattering across the floor.
“Let me help you with those,” he said, kneeling beside me, his smile warm.
We ended up getting coffee that same day. He made me laugh until my cheeks hurt. We talked for three hours straight. One year later, we were married in a small church. My mother cried, his father gave a heartfelt toast, and everyone said we were perfect for each other.
We had two beautiful children—Amy, now living in Oregon, and Michael, who recently moved to Texas. Even now, our golden retriever Buddy greeted us every night, and Sunday cookouts were our tradition. I truly believed we were unshakable.
Then, about a month ago, Jordan came home with a weary, troubled expression.
“I need to drive upstate this weekend,” he said.
“What for?” I asked, setting down my coffee mug.
“Eddie’s funeral. You remember me mentioning him from high school?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think you ever talked about an Eddie.”
He hesitated before replying, “We only kept in touch online. Cancer got him.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. Do you want me to come with you?”
His answer was immediate—too immediate. “No. You didn’t know him. I’d rather process this alone.”
Something about his tone stuck in my mind, but I told myself not to push him when he was grieving.
Saturday came, gray and drizzly. He kissed my cheek, suitcase barely packed, and left. The house felt too quiet without him, so I decided to visit our country house. It had been weeks since I’d checked on it, and I thought I might bring back fresh vegetables for him.
The drive was peaceful—rolling hills, weathered barns, winding roads. But the moment I pulled up the gravel driveway, my stomach dropped.
Jordan’s car was there.
I sat in my own car for two minutes, heart pounding. Then I called out through the screen door. “Jordan?”
Silence. The house was empty. But when I walked toward the shed, I saw him.
He was pouring gasoline over something on the ground.
“JORDAN?? What the hell are you doing?”
He startled so hard the gas can slipped from his hand.
“ALICE?? You shouldn’t be here!”
“Neither should you! You’re supposed to be at a funeral!”
He stepped sideways, trying to block my view. “I… I just stopped here on the way back. Burning weeds, that’s all.”
“It’s three o’clock!” I shouted.
His hands shook as he pulled out a matchbox. Before I could stop him, he struck the match and dropped it.
The fire erupted, hot and violent, flames licking the air. I shoved him aside and stamped at the fire until my hands burned—because I could see what he was trying to destroy.
Photographs. Hundreds of them.
Jordan, dressed in a suit I’d never seen, with a dark-haired woman in a wedding dress. Jordan holding a baby boy with his eyes. Birthday parties, Christmas mornings, beach vacations. All of them with her. And the child.
I could barely breathe.
“There was no funeral,” I said flatly.
“Alice…”
“There was no Eddie.”
He sank onto a log. “Nine years. Her name was Camille.”
“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.”
My mind went numb. “You had another family.”
“Not married. But yes. Another life.”
“For nine years,” I said, each word like glass in my throat.
“I never meant for it to happen. She got pregnant… I couldn’t walk away.”
“And you lied to me. For nearly a decade.”
Jordan nodded miserably. “They lived two hours away. I visited once a month. I told you I was seeing my brother.”
“Your brother lives in California.”
“I know.”
I could barely process the rest. He admitted loving her—and me—at the same time. Claimed he “kept both lives clean” so I’d never suspect.
“Is that what you call destroying two families?” I asked bitterly.
“They’re gone now,” he whispered. “I just… I couldn’t keep their pictures. It hurt too much.”
“You could have told me.”
“And lose you? Lose our kids?”
“You already did.”
We drove home separately. At the house, he asked, “Are you leaving me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I love you, Alice. More than anything. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“You don’t.”
“But I can’t lose you too. Not after losing them.”
That made my stomach turn.
“Don’t talk about them right now,” I snapped.
He tried to ask how to fix this. I told him I didn’t think he could. I told him I needed time—maybe forever.
He said he’d sleep in the guest room. At the door, he looked back and said, “I know sorry isn’t enough. But I am sorry. I’m guilty… more than you’ll ever know.”
I watched him disappear inside. Our home no longer felt like ours.
Now, I’m still here, caught between wanting to forgive him and wanting to burn down everything we built. Maybe love can survive this. Maybe it can’t.
I just know one thing—after 21 years, I’m finally asking myself if I want to stay as the woman who was always his second choice… or finally become the woman who chooses herself.
And when I figure that out, Jordan will know too.