I had the impression that my marriage was strong. I arrived home early one evening and discovered my husband on his knees in the basement, using bleach to scrub away a black stain. I was surprised to see him doing this.
I felt a chill run down my spine. What I discovered after that rendered me with no words. We had what anyone would describe as a picture-perfect existence together, Tom and I.
The house that we lived in was an old one that I had inherited from my grandmother. It was the kind of house that had hardwood floors that creaked and ivy that wrapped itself over the porch rails. Tom was considerate and dependable, and after three years of marriage, we had established a life together that was a source of comfort and confidence.
Children have even been a topic of conversation as of late. While he pretended that I didn’t notice, I would catch him using his laptop to browse websites that featured baby names. This gave me the impression that everything was going exactly as it should have been going.
What took place over the weekend rocked me to my very core because of this reason. I intended to take a lengthy journey to see my sister, but by the middle of the trip, I found myself missing home. When I went through the door, I wanted to see Tom’s face light up with excitement because I wanted to surprise him.
On that Saturday evening, however, when I pulled into the driveway, the house appeared to be in an odd state. Overly motionless. Overly silent.
Inside, the air was filled with the acrid sting of bleach, which was so intense that it caused my eyes to burn. When I smelled that, I immediately went down to the basement. There was a crack in the door.
There was a leak of light. And there he was, crouching on the concrete floor, frantically scrubbing away at a dark stain that was very wide by itself. In the vicinity, there was a pail of bleach water.
On the opposite wall, there was a rolled-up rug and a hefty black trash bag that appeared to be hiding secrets that were just waiting to be uncovered. I called out his name, and he jerked as if he had been caught. The explanation that he provided was too hasty and too blunt: “Spilled wine.
A worn-out cushioning for the carpet. There is nothing of concern.”
What about the way his gaze became more adamant when I pressed? That was even more terrifying to me than the bleach.
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