Later that day, I took a drive to our country house. His car was parked out back. He was supposed to be hours away.
I found him behind the tool shed, his face pale and distant. He was pouring gasoline over a large pile of something on the ground. When he saw me, he panicked.
“Elise, you shouldn’t be here,” he stammered, fumbling in his pocket for a match…
When my husband said he was going to a childhood friend’s funeral, I trusted him. But later that day, a trip to our country house led me to a shocking discovery. I found Thane standing behind the shed, holding a gasoline can.
I wish I hadn’t seen what he was trying to burn. Twenty-one years of marriage can collapse in a single moment. I never thought it would happen to me.
My name is Elise. I’m 46 years old. And last Saturday changed everything I believed about my life.
Thane and I met at a quaint downtown bookstore when I was 25. He was flipping through cookbooks. I dropped my pile of recipe books all over the floor.
“Let me grab those for you,” he said, kneeling beside me. We went for coffee that same afternoon. He had me laughing until my sides ached.
We talked for three hours straight. A year later, we married in a small church ceremony. My mom shed happy tears.
His dad gave a heartfelt toast. It was such a beautiful start. We built something solid together.
We’re blessed with two amazing kids, now grown. Lila lives in Oregon. Rowan moved to Texas last year with his girlfriend.
Our golden retriever, Rusty, still bounds to the door every evening. We have Sunday barbecues on our back porch. Christmas mornings feel enchanted.
I thought we had a steady love, the kind that lasts forever. Not a fiery, movie-star romance, but something reliable. Trustworthy.
Safe, you know. Then last month, Thane came home looking weary and sad. “I need to drive upstate this weekend,” he said, his voice heavy.
“Why?” I asked, setting down my coffee cup. “Cal’s funeral. You remember me mentioning him from high school?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t recall a Cal.”
Thane shifted in his seat. “We only kept in touch online. Old buddies.
Cancer took him.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Should I come with you for support?”
“No.” His answer was too quick. “I mean, you didn’t know him.
It’d be weird. I’d rather deal with this alone.”
His tone felt strange, but I didn’t want to push him while he was grieving. “Okay.
When will you be back?”
“Sunday evening. I’ll pack light and take my car.”
Saturday morning dawned gray and rainy. Thane kissed my cheek before leaving.
His bag looked barely packed. “Drive safe,” I called from the porch. “Yeah,” he said, already pulling out of the driveway.
The house felt hollow without him. Too quiet. So I decided to head to our country house that afternoon.
We bought the small place five years ago for weekend escapes. Now we mostly store garden tools and extra canning jars there. I hadn’t visited in three weeks.
The vegetable patch probably needed care. Maybe I could surprise Thane with fresh tomatoes when he got back from the funeral. The 45-minute drive wound through quiet country roads.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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