My husband started coming home late every day. At first, it was just thirty minutes, then it became an hour, then two. Each time, there was a new excusemeetings ran over, there was traffic on the M25, some last-minute job came up. He kept his phone on silent, picked at his dinner, went straight for a shower, and turned in early, barely saying a word. I started quietly noting down the hours in my mindnot as a way to police him, but because in fifteen years of marriage, hed never been like this.
He used to text me every evening when he left the office. Nownothing. If I rang, hed ignore the call or ring back much later. He started coming home with red eyes, and his clothes reeked of cigarette smokethough hed never smoked a day in his life. He looked worn out in a way that didnt match up to his job. One evening, I asked him outright if he was seeing someone else. He said no, that he was just tired, that I was overreacting. Then he changed the subject and went to bed.
The weeks dragged on the same.
One day, I left work early without telling him. I drove to his office and waited nearby. I saw him come out at his usual time, alone, not chatting to anyone. He got in his car but didnt head home. I followed, keeping well back. He didnt talk on the phone, didnt seem anxious. He turned off the high street and took a quiet side road I knew well. Thats when I realised something didnt add up.
He drove into the cemetery.
He parked up near one of the paths. I left my car further away and followed on foot. I watched as he got out, took a carrier bag from the back seat, and strolled ahead without rushing. He didnt check his phone, didnt speak to anyone. He stopped at a grave, knelt down, pulled out flowers, carefully wiped the headstone with his shirt sleeve, and stayed perfectly still.
It was his mothers grave. Shed died three months earlier.
I knew he visited. Of course I did. But I thought it was just now and then. I had no idea he was coming every single day. I stayed out of sight and watched him talk quietly to himself, sit there for ages, and cry openly without trying to hide it. He didnt leave until it was nearly dark. He had no idea Id been there.
That evening, he came home late again, as usual. I didnt say a word. The following day, he was late again. And the next. I followed him twice more. Both times, he went to the same place, always bringing flowers, always staying much longer than youd expect.
I started to notice little things at homewrappings from bouquets, receipts from the florists just by the cemetery. No suspicious messages, no odd phone calls. There wasnt another woman.
A week later, I sat him down. I told him Id followed him. He didnt get angry or raise his voice. He sat at the kitchen table and said he hadnt known how to tell me he was going every day, because he felt that something bad would happen if he stopped. He said his mothers death had left him hollow. That he couldnt face coming home until hed visited her first. That he needed to talk to her, to tell her about his day, to ask forgiveness for things theyd never sorted out.
Since then, hes never been late without letting me know where he is. Sometimes I go with him. Sometimes he goes alone.
It wasnt an affair.
It wasnt a double life.
It was grief, lived out in silence.
And I only discovered it by following him, convinced Id find something entirely different.
