My husband told me he was going fishing every Sunday morning.
For two years.
Every single Sunday, his alarm would ring at 4:30 a.m. He’d quietly slide out of bed, pull on his old jeans and faded fishing jacket, then kiss my forehead before leaving.
“Back around noon,” he’d whisper.
I always smiled and rolled over.
Our marriage had lasted eighteen years. We had weathered financial struggles, the loss of loved ones, and the challenge of raising two children who were now grown and living on their own.
Trust wasn’t something I questioned.
At least, not until my neighbor knocked on my door one Thursday afternoon.
Nancy looked uncomfortable.
The kind of uncomfortable that made my stomach tighten before she even spoke.
“Can I come in?”
I nodded.
She sat at my kitchen table, twisting her hands together.
“Sarah, I don’t know if this is my place.”
My heart immediately started racing.
“What happened?”
Nancy pulled out her phone.
“I was visiting my sister last weekend.
I saw Tom’s truck.”
My husband’s truck.
She handed me the phone.
There it was.
Parked outside a small apartment complex across town.
The timestamp showed 6:17 a.m.
Sunday morning.
Fishing time.
I stared at the photo.
Then at Nancy.
Then back at the photo.
Maybe there was an explanation.
Maybe he was helping someone.
Maybe—
“I’ve seen it there more than once,” Nancy said quietly.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Much smaller.
I forced a smile.
“Thanks for telling me.”
But the moment she left, I sat alone at the table for nearly an hour.
Thinking.
Remembering.
Questioning.
Two years.
Two years of Sunday fishing trips.
Two years of early mornings.
Two years of stories about lakes and fish.
Two years of lies?
That night, I watched my husband differently.
When he laughed at television commercials.
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