While doing laundry, I found a toothbrush in my husband’s suit pocket, with toothpaste on the bristles. My gut screamed cheating. But when I followed him on his next “business trip,” what I uncovered shattered more than just my trust.
It erased everything.
The smell of laundry detergent mingled with the faint trace of Ethan’s sandalwood cologne rising from the navy blue suit crumpled in the hamper.
I shook out the jacket, expecting receipts, maybe a pen.
Instead, something slightly heavier dropped from the inner chest pocket.
It landed on the tile floor with a soft thud.
A toothbrush. Full-sized. Adult.
The bristles were stiff, smeared faintly with dried toothpaste — minty, sharp, a little too fresh.
I just stood there, staring. Heart a beat too fast. That eerie sixth sense we get when the world tilts a degree off-center?
It kicked in hard.
“What the hell?” I whispered to myself.
Who carries a toothbrush in their suit jacket? There was no logical reason for a toothbrush to be in my husband’s suit pocket — unless he was brushing his teeth at someone else’s house.
Ethan was the type who thrived on routine.
He always wore the same suit and the same watch whenever he went on his same “urgent” business trips.
He was always calm and composed in a way some might have called cold. He kissed my forehead when he came home, like that, too, was just another part of the routine.
No “I love you.” No lingering touch.
Just practical concerns from a practical man. And I loved that about him, but now… maybe what I’d always accepted as unruffled practicality was something colder, after all.
I picked up the toothbrush and stared at it.
Last week, I’d brought up having a baby again. I wasn’t getting any younger, and we’d been married for four years already.
“We can’t have a baby until we’re financially stable,” he’d said, voice low and reasonable.
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