My husband started coming home late every day.
At first it was only by about thirty minutes, then it became an hour, then two. Each time, there was a different excusemeetings ran late, terrible traffic, a last-minute task at work. He kept his phone on silent, barely ate, headed straight for a shower and then bed, barely saying a word to me. I found myself noting the hours in my mind; not because I wanted to control him, but because in fifteen years of marriage hed never shown habits like this.
He used to always text me when he left the office. Nownothing. If I rang, he wouldnt answer, or he would call me back long after. Lately, hed return with red eyes, smelling faintly of cigarette smokethough hes never smokedand he looked utterly drained in a way his job cant quite explain. One evening, I came right out and asked him if there was someone else. He told me no, that he was simply tired and that I was overreacting. He changed the subject and went to bed.
The weeks drifted by much the same.
One day, I asked to leave work early. I didnt say a word to him. I went to his office and waited outside. I watched him come out at his usual time, alone, not talking to anyone. He got in his car and didnt head towards home. I followed, driving slowly. He didnt use his phone in the car, didnt seem nervous at all. He turned off the High Street and down one of the smaller side roads I knew well. That was when I realised something didnt add up.
He drove into the cemetery.
He parked close to the path. I left my car farther back and followed on foot. I saw him get out, take a bag from the back seat, and walk at an easy pace. He wasnt on his phone. He wasnt meeting anyone. He stopped beside a grave. He knelt down. He took out flowers from the bag, wiped down the headstone with his shirt sleeve, and sat there, motionless.
It was his mothers grave. Shed passed away three months earlier.
I knew he visited her, of course I did, but I always thought it was just every now and then. I never realised he went every single day. I stayed in the background. I watched as he spoke quietly to himself. I saw him sit there for a long time. I saw him cry, not bothering to hide his face. I watched him leave at dusk. He never noticed Id been there.
That evening, he was late as usual. I didnt mention anything. The next day, he was late again. And the next. I followed him two more times. Every time, it was the same. He brought flowers; he stayed for ages.
I began to notice little things at homewrapping from flowers, receipts from the florist near the cemetery. There were no strange messages. No odd phone calls. No other woman.
A week later, I spoke to him. I told him Id followed him. He wasnt angry. He didnt raise his voice. He just sat down at the table and told me he hadnt known how to tell me he was going every day, because he felt as if something terrible might happen if he stopped. He said losing his mother had left him feeling empty, and that he couldnt come home unless hed been to see her first. That he needed to talk to her, to tell her about his day, to ask her forgiveness for things theyd never managed to resolve.
Since then, hes never come home late without letting me know where he is. Sometimes I go with him. Sometimes he goes alone.
It wasnt infidelity.
It wasnt some secret life.
It was grief, lived out in silence.
And I found it only by following him, convinced I was about to discover something completely different.
