My husband started coming home late every day. At first, it was just thirty minutes, then an hour, then two. Each night brought a new explanationmeetings ran over, traffic on the A12 was dreadful, last-minute work emergencies. He kept his phone on silent, barely touched his dinner, headed straight for a shower, and went to bed without much in the way of conversation. I found myself quietly counting the hours as they slipped by. It wasnt about controlling him; it was just that, in fifteen years of marriage, hed never acted this way before.
He used to always text me as he left the office. Nownothing. If I phoned, he rarely picked up, usually calling back much later. Hed come in with reddened eyes, his suit faintly smelling of smokethough hed never so much as held a cigaretteand with a weariness that didnt match his job. One evening, I asked him outright if there was someone else. He shook his head and just said he was tired, that I was making it into something it wasnt. Then he changed the subject and went to bed.
The weeks rolled on in much the same way.
One day, I took an afternoon off work without telling him. I drove down to his office and waited. I watched as he left at his usual time, strolling out alone. He got in his car, but didnt head towards home. I followed him, driving slowly at a distance. He didnt seem nervous, never picked up his phone. After a while, he turned off the main road and continued down a side street I knew all too well. Thats when I realised something was off.
He pulled up outside the cemetery.
He parked by the old yew trees. I left my car further back and followed on foot. I watched him climb out, grab a bag from the back seat, and walk forward without any haste. He didnt check his phone, didnt speak to anyone. He stopped by a grave. Kneeling down, he drew flowers from the bag, wiped the headstone with his sleeve, and sat there, still and quiet.
It was his mothers grave. Shed passed away three months before.
I knew he visited, of course. But Id assumed it was only every now and again. I hadnt pictured him coming here every single day. I stayed back, out of sight, and watched him talk quietly, watched him linger, watched him cry openly. I watched him at dusk, brushing at his cheeks, finally heading back to his car. He never noticed Id been there.
That evening, he came home late as usual. I didnt say a word. The next day the same. And the day after. I followed him twice more. Each time, it was the same: he went to the cemetery, brought flowers, stayed a long while.
I began to notice small things around the housecellophane wrappers from flowers, till receipts from the little florist by the cemetery gates. There were no secretive messages, no odd phone calls, no other woman.
A week later, I spoke to him. I told him Id followed him. He didnt get angry, didnt raise his voice. He just sat down at the table and told me he hadnt known how to say he was going every day, that he felt if he stopped, something bad would happen. Said that losing his mother had left him hollow. That he couldnt come home without stopping there first, that he needed to talk to her, to ask her forgiveness for things theyd never resolved.
Hes never late now without letting me know where he is. Sometimes, I join him. Sometimes, he still goes alone.
It wasnt betrayal.
It wasnt a double life.
It was grief, navigated in silence.
And I found it, following him, expecting to discover something utterly different.
