Is Your Wife Being Unfaithful, and Do You Know It?

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 3

The call drummed in his ears all the way home, a relentless buzz that clung like an annoying fly you cant swat away. He sat in the cramped carriage of a Midland Rail service, staring out at the dark glass where his own tired face stared back, and felt anger and doubt settle in his chest as heavy as lead, squeezing his throat with cold, tight fingers.

It all began on an uneventful Friday that later painted his memory in bleak, black shades. His brotherinlaw, Victor, a plainspoken, straightforward bloke, slipped a slowacting poison into his life with a single conversation. From that moment, the world he returned to seemed warped, no longer fitting the familiar shape he cherished.

Later, back at his flat, he leaned on the balcony rail, ready to leave. The navyblue suit fit like a glove, the tie knotted impeccably, and two theatre tickets rested in his jacket pocket. A cigarette hed smoked in nervous anticipation lay ashfilled in a heavy glass ashtray, its powdery remnants echoing his current mood. Inside, Emily was still in the bedroom, the door shut. He heard the faint rustle of her dress and soft steps on the parquet. When she finally appeared in the doorway, bathed in the warm glow of the crystal chandelier, he was momentarily stripped of all thoughtno whisper of Victors gossip, no gnawing jealousy. She was dazzling as ever. Losing her felt like willingly stepping out of sunlight into an endless, cold winter.

Emily, were already latehow long are you going to dawdle? he asked, the impatience in his voice tinged with the bitter sting hed been trying to hide.

She slipped out onto the balcony, her familiar mischievous smile playing on her lips, the one that once drove him mad.

Look, John, your favourite ones, she chirped, her eyes sparkling with playful fire.

Gracefully, almost like a ballerina, she lifted a slender leg from under the hem of her evening dress, revealing sleek scarlet pumps perched on a barely perceptible heel.

I hid them away in the back of the wardrobe, swore never to wear them until my main audience came home, she said, as if reading his dark thoughts, casting the comment like a protective charm, a proof of her loyalty.

He watched her silently, while the lingering echo of Victors doubtful voice replayed in his mind: Shes been showing up there far too often The words blended with the citys distant hum.

Later, behind the wheel of his Audi, the familiar grit of the steering wheel under his fingers, he replayed that fateful conversation. Victor, after a brief, meaningless chat about work, had gone quiet, then started spitting out a garbled stream of words that, like shards of glass, always landed on one nameEmily.

Spill it already, stop beating around the bush! John snapped, his nerves frayed by the heavy pauses that seemed to hide something nasty.

Victor, gathering his courage as if diving off a cliff into icy water, blurted out: Emily had been visiting a certain Thomasa bearded, longhaired health guru who ran a trendy wellness centre.

John let out a loud laugh into the handset, relief flashing across his face.

I know that backyard philosopher! Hes got three kids he chases around like a mad hen, a private house with a garden, a whole operation Not our typical city hassle. You should keep an eye on your own wife, not someone elses! Victor barked, his voice cracking under the weight of his own guilt.

But Victors tone softened, almost choking on his confession.

My sister, Sarah, also went to Thomass sessions for a while. Now she says hes been flirting with her, dropping obvious signs after some meditation and odd rituals, he whispered, his honesty raw and clumsy. The sincerity in his voice made Johns bravado crumble, his feigned cheer evaporating.

Victor went on, saying Emily visited Thomas three or four times a week, as if it were a job. In all his absence, she never once visited his elderly mother living in the same town. Their son, now a frequent guest at Thomass incensefilled home, seemed perfectly at home there.

Victor, pushing his point, said, Thomas is sharp, knows psychology inside out. I tried to have a proper talk with him, warn him off. He looked at me with such smart eyes, made me feel almost ashamed of my ruralsounding suspicions. Maybe theres nothing, maybe its just gossip, but look how the women stare at himmouths open, eyes wide.

John asked softly, And how do they look at him?

Victor listed facts, then warned, Ive banned my own wife from seeing him. Its up to you now, brother, what you do with this.

John tried to brush it off, Paranoia isnt a joke, Victor, he said, making a lastditch effort to restore normalcy. So you think Emily and the boy are going to his blackmagic sessions or something? You always look for the worst.

The tiny, poisonous worm of doubt that the Friday call had planted remained alive, burrowing deep in his mind, stinging with a minute but lethal bite. He found himself, for a fleeting moment, admiring the clear, bright profile of his wife illuminated by the evening lights, yet feeling as though he were studying a strangermysterious and beautiful, someone he no longer trusted. In three days hed have to travel again.

Damn, I was a fool, he muttered bitterly, feeling heat of shame spread across his cheeks. He leaned forward and kissed Emily on the crown, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. She returned the gesture with a warm kiss on his cheek and gently nudged him toward the door.

Come on, open up! Sarah doesnt like waiting long, she called.

Sarah and Victor wrestled with the trunk of their old Vauxhall, pulling out huge woven baskets brimming with rosy apples harvested from their family orcharda generous autumn offering that relatives always shared.

Youre taking forever to get down, Sarah teased, handing him the tiniest basket clearly meant for Emily. Cant tear yourself away from your beauty?

She glanced at John with a curious eye, wondering why hed returned from his assignment so early. John himself still couldnt untangle his swirling emotions. The earlier turmoil, that fierce, selfignited resentment, had faded, but peace had not yet settled. He felt like a tiny leaf caught in a sudden, fierce whirlpool, spinning in dark water, unable to break free onto a calm stream. One thing he now knew for sure: Victors accusations were baseless, born from his own jealous imagination.

A primal, animallike fear kept John on edge, expecting another tirade about Thomasespecially since Sarah, Emilys sister, had once tried to set Victor up. Yet Sarah hoisted the largest basket onto her hip and marched toward the driveway.

Come on, lads, dont dawdleget moving! she shouted over her shoulder, her voice carrying a familiar, commanding tone. Youll have time to chat later.

The men lingered in an uncomfortable silence, each waiting for the other to speak. Victor finally slammed the trunk shut with a clang and fished a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Fancy a proper American smoke? he asked, halfsmirking. Ive got a whole unopened pack from the last trip.

No, thanks. Ive got my own, John replied briskly, pulling out his own pack.

Victor took a deep drag, letting a plume of smoke drift into the cool evening. You know, eightyfive percent of divorces are blamed on women, mostly because of simple cheating he declared, his voice dropping.

For a moment John thought the conversation might finally end, giving him a chance to breathe. Yet Victor, sensing the lull, leaned in again, whispering fragmented, dark tidbits about Thomas and his supposed entanglements, insisting on his own innocence while painting himself as a vigilant guardian against poisonous doubt.

The worst part, Victor went on theatrically, slapping his thighs, is that your Emily was seen driving all over town with that longbearded devil, even in your own car! And she even dragged little Mickey along. The lads barely two!

Emily took Mickey for a massage, John gritted out, teeth clenched. He had a leg issue that wouldnt heal, and Thomas the bonesetter knows his stuffhes a proper health nut.

A heavy silence fell, thicker than any argument could break. Even Victors usual bluster seemed muted.

In that quiet, John remembered the day hed driven back to his hometown, jealousy gnawing at him, and, instead of heading home, had bolted for the outskirts, to the little village of Littlebrook where Thomass tidy cottage sat among almost storybook gardens. He hadnt planned to act impulsively; hed wanted to think things through before making any rash decisions. Yet, as soon as he got into the taxi, something inside himlike a demon pulling his tonguespurred him to shout the address to the driver, clutching his house keys like a lifeline.

A tall, slender woman with weary but kind brown eyes opened the door. She smiled calmly and said the wife was away, having left early that morning with a young mother to see the reputed healer for their child’s stubborn congenital dislocation. She sighed softly, explaining that shed long since given up trying to manage her husbands eccentricities, describing him as a softhearted fellow always ready to help, even if he sometimes neglected his own children.

Victor, finally backing off, said, Im not trying to argue with you you can say what you like, even if shes his legal wife. Did you check all this yourself?

Yes, John replied, his voice low but steady. He bit his lip, tasting the bitterness of recent anxieties, then added, Thats enough for you, Victor. Ive had enough of the mudslinging.

Victor tried to press, Youre cursing now? Dont get angry, brother. Ive told you everything honestly what I saw, I said. Now youve seen for yourself, so you can sleep easy.

John said nothing. He listened to the distant city hum, feeling the last of his tension melt away. He realized his recent storm of nerves had taught him something vital: a life built on unshakable certainty can crumble like glass in an instant, slipping through the fingers like sand. He was grateful it hadnt. He thanked whatever higher power had spared him, recognising the bitter lesson had been worth its price. Now, with a clearer heart, he believed happiness was possible again.

And so he learned that trust, once broken by suspicion, can be rebuilt only when you stop listening to whispers in the dark and start listening to the steady beat of your own truth.

The Key in His Hand Rain tapped monotonously at the window of the small London flat, like a metronome counting down the hours. Michael sat hunched on the edge of his sagging single bed, as if trying to make himself smaller, less visible to fate. His large hands, once strong and skilled on the factory floor, now rested helplessly on his knees. Occasionally, his fingers clenched in a futile attempt to seize something intangible. He stared not just at the peeling wallpaper but at the map of his hopeless daily routes: from the local NHS surgery to the private diagnostic clinic. His gaze was washed-out, like a faded film stuck on a single scene. Another doctor, another condescending “Well, at your age, you can’t expect miracles.” He didn’t get angry. Anger took energy—a resource he no longer had. All that remained was exhaustion. The pain in his back had become more than a symptom; it was a landscape, the constant white noise of helplessness behind every thought and action. He followed every instruction: took the medication, rubbed in the ointments, lay on the cold physiotherapy couch, feeling like a broken piece of machinery at a scrapyard. And all the while—he waited. Passively, almost religiously, he waited for the life preserver thrown by someone else: the state, a genius doctor, an expert professor, anyone who might haul him out of this slow-sinking bog. He searched the horizon of his life and saw nothing but the grey sheet of rain beyond the window. Michael’s resolve, once so focused on solving any problem at work or at home, had shrunk to a single function: to endure and hope for a miracle from outside. Family… It had all but disappeared, quietly and quickly. First, his clever daughter Katie left for the bright lights of Manchester. He wished her every success—“Dad, I’ll help as soon as I’m on my feet,” she’d promised on the phone. It almost didn’t matter. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel had burned out fast: ruthless cancer found too late. Michael was left not only with his aching back but also the silent accusation—he, half-collapsed and half-upright, was alive, and she, his support and spark, was gone in three months. He looked after her as best he could until the cough broke her voice and the sparkle faded from her eyes. The last thing she said to him, holding his hand in the hospice: “Hold on, Mike…” And he broke entirely. Katie called and offered for him to move in with her, a rental on the outskirts. But what was the point? He’d only be a burden, out of place in her world, and she wasn’t coming back. Now only Rachel’s younger sister, Val, visited, every Thursday, like clockwork: a Tupperware of stew, a packet of painkillers, a bag of groceries. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, unbuttoning her coat. “Not bad,” he’d answer. She would tidy his pokey flat, as if tidying his world, then leave behind the faint scent of her perfume and the palpable sense of duty fulfilled. He was grateful. And infinitely alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical; it was a cell of his own grief and quiet anger at an unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his eyes fell to the scuffed carpet—and spotted the flat key, dropped after his latest laborious return from the clinic. Just a key. Nothing special. As he stared, it became something else—the focus of his attention. Suddenly, he remembered his granddad, Peter, vividly, as if flicking on the light in a dark room. Granddad, with an empty sleeve tucked into his belt, could tie his laces one-handed with a broken fork, not hurrying, always triumphant when he succeeded. “See, Mikey—tools are always close at hand. Sometimes they look like junk, but that’s the trick: spot the ally in the scrap.” As a boy, Michael brushed it off as old man talk. Granddad was a hero; heroes manage anything. Michael was just ordinary, and his war with pain and loneliness couldn’t be won with kitchen utensils. But now, staring at the key, the old lesson struck home. Granddad never waited for rescue—he used what he had. Not to defeat pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael done? Only waited, bitter and passive, at the threshold of someone else’s kindness. The thought stirred him. Now, that key—a bit of metal, echoing with his granddad’s words—became an unspoken command. He stood, joints popping painfully, and grasped the key. Turning to the wall, he pressed the blunt end against the spot on his back that ached most. Then, carefully, he let his weight lean into it. It wasn’t treatment or massage—just pressure. Blunt, direct, pain against pain. He found a point where the struggle brought not a new jolt of agony but a dull, strange relief, as if something inside released ever so slightly. Small experiments: a bit higher, a bit lower. Again. Every movement was slow, tentative, attentive to his body’s response. It wasn’t a cure; it was a negotiation, and the old key was his tool of choice. He felt foolish—surely a key wasn’t a miracle. But the next evening, when the pain crept in again, he tried once more. And again. He found the spots, the leverage, and the strange relief, as if he could prise open the pain from within. He started to use the doorframe for gentle stretches. A glass of water on the bedside reminded him to stay hydrated. Just water—free, simple. Michael stopped waiting, hands in lap. Instead, he used what he had: a key, a doorframe, the floor for small stretches, his own determination. He kept a little notebook, not tracking pain, but victories: “Today I stood at the cooker five minutes longer.” He lined three empty baked bean tins on the windowsill, filled them with potting soil, and pressed in a few onion bulbs. Not a garden, exactly—but three containers of life for which he was now responsible. A month passed. At his next check-up, the GP looked at the scans, then at Michael. “There’s real improvement. Have you been doing something new?” “Yes,” Michael replied. “Tool improvisation.” He didn’t mention the key. The doctor wouldn’t understand. But Michael knew. No rescue ship. No miracle cure. Just tools—lying unnoticed on his floor, while he’d waited for someone else to turn on the light. One Wednesday, when Val arrived with her usual soup, she paused, surprised at the door. On the windowsill, green onion shoots pointed to the pale London sky. The room smelled of fresh growth, not staleness and pills. “You… what’s this?” she managed, staring at him—upright, smiling. “A garden,” Michael answered simply. Then, after a pause: “Want some for your soup? Homegrown, fresh.” That evening, she lingered over a cup of tea. He didn’t complain about his health; instead, he told her about the stairs—how each day, he climbed one step higher. Salvation didn’t appear as Dr. Dolittle or some visiting angel. It showed up as a door key, a frame, an empty tin, and the stairs outside. No magic, and no cure for age or grief. But in his hand, ordinary things became tools; not for grand victories, just for the small, daily climb. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden staircase from the heavens and finally notice the everyday concrete one at your feet, you realize climbing it—slowly, steadily, with help where you find it—is what living really means. On the windowsill, in three humble tins, juicy green onions grew. And it was, truly, the finest garden in the world.

The Key in His Hand Rain tapped at the window of the flat in a ceaseless rhythm, like a metronome counting down to the end. Michael perched on the edge of his battered single bed, hunched as if he could shrink small enough to escape his own fate. His large hands, once strong and sure at the factory floor, now rested helplessly in his lap. Sometimes his fingers clenched, grasping for something intangible. He wasn’t just looking at the wall—he saw mapped out on the peeling wallpaper the hopeless routes from his local GP to the private diagnostic centre. His gaze had faded, like an old film stuck on a single scene. Another doctor, another knowing “Well, at your age, what do you expect?” He didn’t even feel angry anymore. Anger asks for strength, and he had none left. Only weariness remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it was his landscape, the backdrop to every action and thought, the white noise of helplessness that drowned out everything else. He obeyed all the instructions: took the pills, rubbed in the balms, lay on the cold couch at the physio clinic, feeling like some disassembled machine abandoned on the scrapheap. And all the while—he waited. Passively, almost with religious patience, he waited for someone—some state service, brilliant doctor or clever professor—to finally throw him a lifeline before he slipped under for good. He watched the horizon of his life, but saw only the drizzling tapestry outside the window. Michael’s willpower, once the tool with which he solved every problem at work and at home, was now narrowed down to a single function: endure, and hope for a miracle laid at his door. Family… He had one, but it slipped away, quickly and definitively. It happened so fast. First his daughter, clever Katie, went off to London for a better life. He’d never opposed her decision—he’d always wanted more for her. “Dad, I’ll help you when I’m settled,” she’d said on the phone. But that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the corner shop, but for good. Rachel succumbed quickly—a ruthless cancer caught too late. Michael was left not only with a broken back, but a silent accusation: he, partly walking, partly bedridden, was still alive. But she, his anchor, his drive, his Ray, faded away in three months flat. He cared for her as best he could to the end. Until her cough grew raw and he saw that familiar, vanishing glint in her eyes. The last thing she said, in the hospital, clutching his hand: “Hang on, Mike…” He couldn’t. He broke, fully. Katie called, asked him to move into her rented flat, pleaded with him. But why would she need him there? In a stranger’s home. Besides, he wouldn’t burden her with his helplessness. And she wasn’t coming back. Now only Rachel’s younger sister, Val, visited—once a week, by the book. She brought soup in a tub, pasta or a couple of fishcakes, and a new box of painkillers. “How are you, Michael?” she’d ask, slipping off her coat. He’d nod, “Alright.” They’d sit in silence while Val tidied up his cramped flat—like tidying his things might somehow tidy his life. She’d leave behind her perfume and the faint, physical sense she’d performed a duty. He was grateful. And endlessly alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell built from his own helplessness, grief, and strangled fury at an unfair world. One particularly bleak evening, his eyes ran over the worn carpet and landed on the key to his flat. He must have dropped it the last time he struggled in from the doctor’s. Just a key. Nothing special. A bit of metal. He stared as if seeing it for the first time—not a key, but something else. It just lay there. Quiet. Waiting. He thought of Granddad. Suddenly, brightly, as if someone had flicked on the light in a dark corner of memory. Granddad, Peter Evans, with an empty sleeve pinned to his belt, used to sit on a stool and tie his laces with one hand and a bent fork. Not rushing, but focused, giving a little victorious snort when he managed. “Watch this, Mikey,” Grandpa would say, eyes glowing with the triumph of wit over circumstance. “There’s always a tool nearby. Doesn’t always look like much—sometimes it’s rubbish. Trick is to spot your ally in the scrap.” Back then, Michael thought it was just old man’s talk, a fairytale for comfort. Granddad was a hero—heroes could do anything. But he, Michael, was just an ordinary man, and his war with back pain and loneliness left no room for heroic cutlery tricks. But looking at the key now, that old story wasn’t a comfort; it was a reproach. Grandpa never waited for rescue. He took what he had—a broken fork—and beat helplessness, if not pain or loss. What had Michael taken? Only passive, bitter waiting at the threshold of someone else’s charity. The thought unsettled him. The key—this bit of metal, echoing Granddad’s words—suddenly felt like a silent order. He stood up—first with a familiar groan, ashamed even in his empty flat. Shuffling two steps, he stretched out. Joints crunched like broken glass. He picked up the key. Tried to straighten—and the familiar white blast of pain sliced into his lower back. He froze, gritting his teeth, waiting for the wave to recede. But instead of collapsing back onto the bed, he moved, slow and careful, to the wall. Not thinking, not analysing, just following the impulse, he turned his back to the wall. Pressed the blunt end of the key against the wallpaper at the tenderest point. Then, gently, experimentally, leaned on it with his weight. No goal—to “stretch” or “massage”. This wasn’t medical. It was plain pressure. Force meeting force; pain meeting pain, reality colliding with reality. He found a spot where this struggle brought, not a new attack, but a strange dull relief—as if something inside just gave, loosened a millimetre. He shifted the key a little higher. Then low. Leaned in again. Repeated. Every movement slow, exploratory, listening for his body’s answer. Not treatment. Negotiation. The tool for these talks wasn’t a fancy stimulator, but the old door key. It was silly. The key wasn’t a cure. But the next evening, when pain returned, he tried it again. And again. Found spots where pressure brought not agony but a queer reprieve, as if he was prying apart the jaws from the inside. Then he started using the door frame for careful stretches. Noticed the glass of water on the bedside table—he ought to drink. Just water. Free. Michael stopped waiting with his hands folded. He used what he had: the key, the doorframe, the floor for the lightest stretches, his own determination. He started a notebook, not about pain, but “key victories”: “Today managed five more minutes standing at the hob.” He set up three empty baked bean tins on the windowsill, which he’d meant to bin. Filled them with earth from the front garden. Dropped a few small onions in each. Not a vegetable patch. But three tins of life, and his responsibility. A month later, at his appointment, the doctor flicked over the new scans and raised an eyebrow. “There’s been a change. Have you been doing exercises?” “Yes,” Michael said simply. “Making do with what I’ve got.” He didn’t mention the key. The doctor wouldn’t understand. But Michael did. Rescue hadn’t sailed in on a ship. It had been lying on the floor all along, while he’d stared at the wall and waited for someone else to turn on his light. One Wednesday, when Val arrived with the soup, she stopped short in the doorway. On the window, in the tinned cans, young onions were sprouting. The room smelled not of must and medicine, but something else—hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, staring at him, sturdily standing by the sill. Michael, in the middle of gently watering his shoots with an old mug, turned. “An allotment,” he said simply. After a pause: “Want some for your soup? Homegrown, fresh.” She stayed longer that evening. They drank tea, and he, without mentioning aches, told her about the stairs in his block—how he climbed one flight a day now. Rescue didn’t come as Doctor Dolittle with a magic serum. It hid in a key, a doorframe, an empty tin and a plain set of stairs. It didn’t take away the pain, the loss, or his age. It just put tools in his hands—not to win the whole war, but to wage his own daily battles. And it turned out, if you stop waiting for a golden staircase from the sky and notice the ordinary, concrete one under your feet, just climbing a step at a time—slowly, with support—is life itself. And on the windowsill, in three tin cans, the brightest green onions in the world were growing. It was the finest garden imaginable.