My husband started coming home late every night.
At first it was only half an hour, then an hour, then two. Each evening, there was a new excusehis meetings had dragged on, there was traffic on the North Circular, or last-minute work had kept him late. Hed keep his phone on silent, pick at his dinner, then disappear straight off to shower and bed, barely saying a word. I started marking the hours in my mind, not to control him, but because in fifteen years of marriage hed never behaved this way.
He used to always send me a quick message when leaving the office in central London. Now, nothing. If I called, he either didnt pick up or would ring back much later. Sometimes hed come home with red, tired eyes. His suits reeked of cigarette smokeeven though hed never smoked a day in his lifeand he seemed drained, in a way that had nothing to do with spreadsheets and deadlines. One evening, unable to take the silence any longer, I asked him outright if he was seeing another woman. He said no, that he was just exhausted and I was making too much of it. Then he changed the subject and went to bed.
The weeks slipped by, all the same.
One day, I asked if I could leave work early. I didnt mention a word of my plan to him. I went to his office in Holborn and waited, hidden from view. I saw him leave at his usual time, alone and silent. He got in the car, but didnt drive toward our house in Richmond. I followed, creeping along in the dusk. He wasnt on the phone, didnt look anxious. He left the main road, turned onto a back lane I knew well. At that moment, I felt unease settling in my stomach.
He turned into Highgate Cemetery.
He parked up along a quiet lane. I pulled up much further away and followed on foot. I saw him step out, take a bag from the back seat, and stroll on gently, no rush at all. He wasnt glued to his phone, not whispering to anyone. He stopped at a grave. He knelt. He drew flowers from the bag, wiped the headstone with his shirt sleeve, and simply remained there, motionless.
It was his mothers grave. Shed passed away three months before.
Id known he visited her, of course. I thought it was only now and then. I had no idea he went every single day. I kept my distance. I watched him talk, quietly, to the stone. I watched him sit for ages. I watched him break down in tears, not bothering to hide his face. I watched him leave only when it grew dark. He never once guessed Id been there.
That evening, he slunk in late, same as always. I never confronted him. Next day, late again. The day afterstill late. Twice more I followed him, and twice more he walked the same path. Each time, he brought flowers. Each time, he lingered for what felt like hours.
At home, I noticed little tracesthe cellophane from bouquets, receipts from the florist just by the cemetery. No strange texts, no odd phone calls. Not a hint of anyone else.
A week later, I sat him down. I told him Id followed him. He didnt shout, didnt even flinch. He sat at the table, his hands trembling, and told me he’d simply not known how to explain he went every day. That he felt as if, if he stopped, something terrible might happen. That losing his mother had hollowed him out. That he couldnt come home without seeing her first. That he needed to talk to her, needed to tell her about his day, needed to ask forgiveness for the things theyd never managed to resolve.
Since then, hes never been late home without telling me where he is. Sometimes I go with him. Sometimes he goes alone.
It wasnt an affair.
It wasnt a double life.
It was grief, endured in silence.
And I found it, following him, convinced Id discover something else entirely.
