For years, I thought my husband Stan and I were living a fairy tale until I discovered he was renting a secret house on the outskirts. What I found when I visited unveiled a heart-stopping truth, exposing the dark reality of the man I thought I knew.
My husband Stan was my soulmate, not just a partner I shared the same roof or bed with, and I happily put his wishes first, even delaying having children. Then, one day, a forgotten phone revealed the painful truth: my husband wasn’t who I thought he was.
Seven years ago, Stan and I met during a press conference in Tokyo. We’ve been together ever since, married for five of those golden years. He seemed perfect in every sense of the word.
“Mindy, you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” Stan once said, collapsing onto our plush sofa after a long day at work. “But seeing your face makes it all better.”
I smiled, settling next to him. “Tell me about it. I want to hear everything.”
Those days were when we couldn’t get enough of each other. Stan showered me with precious gifts, but after some time, I got bored of his expensive gifts. I wanted him, his time, and not those materialistic sparkly diamonds or opulent pearls.
“Another necklace?” I once asked, trying to mask my disappointment as I opened the velvet box.
Stan beamed, oblivious to my tone. “Only the best for you, darling.”
Stan worked in an office in an amazing position and made a lot of money. But the thing is, he started spending more time at work while I stayed at home, dusting, cooking, and cleaning. We used to binge-watch Netflix, bake together, or just enjoy each other’s company. But then, Stan started coming home late, and I’d be mostly asleep when he got back.
One morning, Stan left for work and forgot his phone on the table. As I was doing laundry, his phone buzzed. Curiosity got the better of me, and I picked it up to check the message.
Stan had locked his phone, but I had once seen his pattern lock and knew it by heart, though I had never snooped through his phone before. Seeing the words “final reminder” in all caps, I couldn’t resist.
I unlocked Stan’s phone and read the message: “STAN! THIS IS YOUR FINAL REMINDER TO PAY THE RENT FOR THE HOUSE, OR I’LL HAVE TO RENT IT TO SOMEONE ELSE! TOMORROW IS THE DEADLINE!”
My hands shook as I read it again. Stan was renting a house without telling me? I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Just then, Stan called my phone. “Hey, honey. I left my phone at home. I’ll be home late tonight… important client meeting.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Fine!”
At precisely five o’clock, I hailed a cab, directing the driver to Stan’s office. I didn’t take my yellow Mini Cooper, fearing Stan might discover I was following him.
“I need to be there a bit early,” I told myself, my heart pounding. “I have to find out what he’s up to.”
At 6 p.m. sharp, I saw Stan leaving his office and get into his car, driving to the outskirts of the city.
“Follow that car,” I instructed the driver, feeling like I was in some kind of spy movie.
After what felt like an eternity, Stan parked outside a small, rundown house and went inside.
I asked the cabbie to wait, and went after Stan ten minutes later. My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob.
Inside, Stan was sitting on a chair near an easel of painting. What was going on?
I barged in, and Stan’s face turned pale. “M-Mindy?” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here, Stan? Why did you rent this house?”
He sighed deeply. “This house is my escape from the daily grind. It’s where I come to refresh and refocus.”
I felt a surge of relief and confusion. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was embarrassed about my hobby, given my high-profile job. I feared your teasing,” Stan answered.
I moved closer, my anger softening. “Stan, I’d never laugh at something that makes you happy. But why all the secrecy?”
Before he could answer, someone knocked on the door.
Stan told me to go home and he would explain everything later.
“No, I think I’ll get my answers now.”
“Mindy, wait—”
Stan tried to stop me, but I opened the door to find a young brunette standing there. “I’m Luke’s girlfriend. He paints portraits of me. And who are you?”
“I’m his WIFE! And his name is STAN! Not Luke!”
The girl was in shock. Stan pushed the girl away and slammed the door shut. “Mindy, I can explain—”
“What’s going on, Stan? Who is she?”
My eyes darted around the room filled with canvases and paint tubes. I pulled the cloth off the nearest easel and found a painting of a half-naked woman, the same woman who had just been at the door.
I broke into tears. “Mindy, please,” Stan begged. “It’s not what you think—”
But I didn’t want to listen. Under the bed, I found more canvases with portraits of scantily clad women in suggestive poses—and then I found the photos.
“Oh God,” I choked out, staring at images of Stan in compromising positions with these women. The truth hit me like a freight train. Stan was cheating on me.
“It was a mistake,” he kept saying, “some kind of obsession I can’t overcome. Mindy, please—”
But I was already moving towards the door, my vision blurred by tears.
“Mindy, wait!” Stan called after me. “Let me explain!”
I ignored his pleas and stumbled out into the night air. My whole body shook as I got into the cab, Stan’s cries still echoing in my ears.
Two weeks later, as I wait for the divorce proceedings to begin, I can’t stop shaking.
How could I have shared my life with someone like Stan? How could I have been so blind?
I reported him to the police, shattering his carefully curated public image. It felt like the only way to reclaim some power in this nightmare.
I sit in my new apartment, staring at the walls. I can’t help but think about how quickly my “perfect” marriage crumbled. It was as fragile as glass, shattering into a million pieces at my feet.
I don’t know how long it will take to heal from these scars. The betrayal runs deep, inflicted by the very man I worshipped, trusted, and loved.
