He Had a Second Phone… But the Truth Wasn’t What I Expected
Tom and I had been together for over a decade. You’d think after all those years, we’d be closer than ever—reading each other’s minds, finishing each other’s sentences. But lately, it felt like an invisible wall had sprung up between us. He’d become distant, quiet. I told myself not to overreact—work stress, midlife blues, maybe just the spark fading. Still, it stung. We’d been through so much: moving house, money troubles, his dad’s stroke, raising our son. Shouldn’t that have made us stronger?
One ordinary evening, while tidying our bedroom, I decided to sort through old winter clothes. A battered jacket of Tom’s—one I hadn’t seen him wear in years—tumbled out of the wardrobe. Then, from its inner pocket, a phone clattered to the floor. Small, cheap, scuffed at the edges. Charged, and set to silent. Odd. This thing looked well-used, yet he’d never mentioned it.
My first instinct was to shove it back and pretend I’d seen nothing. But curiosity won. I wasn’t hunting for drama, but secrets in a marriage? Not ideal.
I tapped the screen. No calls—just messages. All incoming. My stomach dropped. The first one read:
*”We fought again… But you know how much I love you. See you soon.”*
Another:
*”Are you cross? I didn’t mean it. Just tired. Off to Tesco now—don’t sulk.”*
And a third:
*”You shouldn’t have shouted. I’m upset. Still sending kisses, though.”*
I froze. These were… from a man? No—wait. They were *to* a woman. My hands shook. Was Tom seeing someone? Or was this some bloke texting him? Or—good lord—was he texting *himself*? The confusion made it worse.
I scrolled to the very first message. It began:
*”I’m rubbish at talking. When you’re near me, I clam up. So I write instead. Think of this as my secret diary—about you. This phone’s my silent mate. I’ll pour everything here: the rows, the love, the stuff I can’t say out loud. If you ever find it, know this—every word’s for you.”*
I sat on the bed and cried. It was *me*. All this time, he’d been… journaling. Our arguments, his guilt, the words stuck in his throat. Nearly two years’ worth. He’d been fighting for us in the only way he knew how. Silent, but writing.
When he got home from work, I didn’t tiptoe. I just handed him the phone and said, “Found this.” He didn’t flinch or make excuses. Just sighed, sat beside me, and pulled me close. We stayed like that for ages.
Then we hatched a plan: a shared email inbox. We’d send notes there—everything too hard to say aloud. The big stuff, the little niggles, the “I fancy you like mad today”s. We’d take turns reading. Then we’d talk. And hug.
That’s how we saved our marriage. And, funny thing? I fell for him all over again. For that same Tom I’d started from scratch with. For the man who loved me in his quiet, stubborn way.
