When my husband said he was heading to a childhood friend’s funeral, I believed him. But later that day, a trip to our country house led me to uncover a chilling discovery. I found my husband standing behind the shed with a gasoline can in his hands. I wish I hadn’t seen what he was trying to burn down.
Twenty-one years of marriage can crumble in a single moment. I never thought it would happen to me. My name is Alice. I’m 46 years old. And last Saturday changed everything I believed about my life.
Jordan and I met at a cozy bookstore downtown when I was 25. He was browsing the cooking section. I dropped my stack of recipe books everywhere.
“Let me help you with those,” he said, kneeling down beside me.
We went for coffee that same afternoon. He made me laugh until my sides hurt. We talked for three hours straight.
One year later, we were married in a small church ceremony. My mother cried happy tears. His father gave the most beautiful toast. It was such a beautiful beginning.
We built something real together. We’re blessed with two wonderful children who are grown now. Amy lives in Oregon. Michael moved to Texas last year with his girlfriend.
Our golden retriever, Buddy, still greets us at the door every evening. We have Sunday cookouts on our back porch. Christmas mornings feel magical.
I thought we had the steady kind of love that lasts forever. Not a passionate movie kind of love. But something solid. Dependable. And safe, you know.
Then last month, Jordan came home looking tired and sad.
“I need to drive upstate this weekend,” he said, worried.
“What for?” I asked, setting down my coffee mug.
“Eddie’s funeral. You remember me mentioning him from high school?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think you ever talked about an Eddie.”
Jordan shifted in his chair. “We only stayed in touch online. We’re childhood friends. Cancer got him.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. Should I come with you for support?”
“No.” His answer came too fast. “I mean, you didn’t know him. It would be awkward. I’d rather process this alone.”
Something felt off about his tone. But I didn’t want to press him during his time of grief.
“Okay. When will you be back?”
“Sunday evening. I’ll just pack a few essentials and take my car.”
Saturday morning arrived gray and drizzly. Jordan kissed my cheek before leaving. His suitcase looked barely packed.
“Drive safely,” I called from the porch.
“Sure,” he replied, already backing out of the driveway.
The house felt empty without him. It was too quiet, so I decided to visit our country house that afternoon.
We bought the little place five years ago for weekend getaways. Mostly, we store gardening tools and extra canning supplies there now.
I hadn’t been out there in three weeks. The vegetable garden probably needed attention. Maybe I could surprise Jordan with fresh tomatoes when he returned from the funeral.
The drive took 45 minutes through winding country roads. I love that peaceful stretch of highway. Rolling hills and old barns dot the landscape.
But when I pulled up the gravel driveway, my heart stopped.
Jordan’s car sat parked near the tool shed. Dusty but unmistakably his. Same dent on the rear bumper from last winter.
My hands started shaking on the steering wheel.
“What the hell?” I whispered to myself.
I sat there for two full minutes, staring at his car. My mind raced with possibilities. And none of them made sense. Finally, I got out and walked toward the house.
“Jordan?” I called through the screen door. “Jordan, are you here?”
Silence.
The house was empty. No signs of him anywhere inside. His keys weren’t on the kitchen counter.
I walked around back toward the sheds and garden area. That’s when I saw him… and froze.
Jordan stood in the clearing behind the tool shed. He was pouring gasoline over something on the ground.
The smell hit me like a punch. Sharp and chemical. It burned my nostrils.
His face looked blank and distant. Like he was sleepwalking through a nightmare.
“JORDAN?? What the hell are you doing?”
He jerked like I’d slapped him. The gas can slipped from his hands.
“ALICE?? What are you..? Oh my God! You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you! You’re supposed to be at a funeral. What the hell is going on?”
His eyes went wide in panic. He stepped sideways to block my view of whatever he’d been dousing.
“I am. I mean, I was. It’s n-nothing,” he stammered. “I stopped here on the way back.”
“Back from where? It’s only three o’clock!”
“The service ended early. I just needed to burn some weeds. Lotta ticks back here. Alice… don’t come closer. Fire hazard, you know.”
Jordan fumbled in his pocket for the matchbox. His hands were trembling badly.
“Don’t! Move away from there right now!” I shouted.
But he’d already struck the match. The flame danced between his fingers for one terrible second.
Then he dropped it.
Fire erupted across the ground with a violent whoosh. Orange flames leaped three feet high. Heat slammed against my face.
“Are you insane?” I screamed, running toward the blaze.
Jordan grabbed my arm. “Don’t! It’s dangerous! Stay back!”
I shoved him aside with both hands. He stumbled backward and nearly fell.
The flames were already dying down. And I could see what he’d been trying to destroy.
Photographs. Hundreds of them. They were scattered across the scorched earth like fallen leaves.
I dropped to my knees beside the smoldering pile. Some pictures were still burning around the edges.
But I could see enough. More than enough.
These were pictures of Jordan in a suit I’d never seen before. He was standing next to a dark-haired woman in a wedding dress. Both of them were smiling and posing… the kind of staged pose you see in wedding albums.
Jordan was holding a baby boy with his same gray eyes. The woman beside him was glowing with happiness.
There were more pictures. Among them was one of Jordan pushing a little boy on a swing set. The same child. Maybe three years old now. Christmas morning scenes in a living room I didn’t recognize. Birthday parties. Beach vacations. Family portraits.
All featuring my husband. With another woman. And another child.
My chest felt like someone was crushing it with their bare hands.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”
I frantically patted out the remaining flames with my jacket. The heat burned through to my palms. I didn’t care.
Jordan stood frozen behind me. He wasn’t helping. He didn’t care to explain. He was just watching me save pieces of his secret life.
When the last flame died, I sat back on my heels. My jacket was ruined. My hands were red and stinging. But the real pain sat heavy in my chest, colder than the ashes in front of me.
“There was no funeral,” I said without looking at him.
“Alice…”
“There was no Eddie.”
“Please let me explain.”
I turned around slowly. Jordan’s face was pale as chalk. Tears ran down his cheeks.
“How long?”
He sank down onto a fallen log like his legs had given out.
“Nine years. Her name is Camille. Was Camille.”
“Was?”
“She died two weeks ago. Car accident. A drunk truck driver hit them head-on.”
“Them?”
“Her and Tommy. Our son. He was eight.”
I stared at him. This stranger who was wearing my husband’s face. And speaking about his other family like I should understand.
“You had another wife.”
“Not married. But yes. Another life.”
“For nine years.”
“I never meant for it to happen. It started as just… meetings. Then she got pregnant.”
“And you kept them both secret from me.”
Jordan nodded miserably. “They lived two hours north. I visited once a month. Told you I was visiting my brother.”
“Your brother lives in California.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I had to lie about everything.”
My mind reeled backward through nine years of lies. All those weekend trips. Business conferences that ran long. Late nights at the office. Everything had been a lie.
“Did you love her?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Jordan’s shoulders shook. “Yes. I loved her. And I love you too. I know that sounds impossible.”
“It sounds sick.”
“I kept both lives separate. And clean. You never suspected because I was careful.”
“Careful.” I laughed bitterly. “Is that what you call destroying two families?”
“I destroyed one family. Tommy and Camille are gone.”
Fresh tears spilled down his face. His grief looked real and raw. It made me angrier.
“So you came here to burn the evidence?”
“I couldn’t keep their pictures anymore. It was too… painful. But I couldn’t just throw them away either.”
“You could’ve told me the truth.”
“And lose everything? You? Our kids?”
“You already lost everything, Jordan. You just don’t know it yet.”
We drove home in separate cars. I couldn’t bear to be in the same space with him.
My hands shook on the steering wheel the entire way. I kept seeing those photographs. Jordan’s face was full of love for another woman.
At home, I sat on our front porch steps. Jordan paced the driveway like a caged animal.
“What happens now?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you leaving me?”
I looked up at him. My husband of 21 years. The father of my children. The man who brought me coffee in bed every Sunday morning.
“I don’t know.”
“I still love you, Alice. More than anything. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“You’re right. You don’t.”
“But I need you. I can’t lose you too. Not after losing them.”
His words made my stomach turn. Like I was some consolation prize after his “other” family died.
“Don’t talk about them right now.”
“I have to grieve them. They were a part of my life for nine years.”
“Then what about me, Jordan? What about our kids? Where do we stand in your life now?”
He sat down on the step below me, close enough to touch, but I pulled away.
“How do I fix this?”
“I don’t think you can.”
“There has to be a way. We’ve built too much together to throw it all away.”
I thought about our children. They would be devastated. Their father wasn’t who they thought he was. I thought about splitting holidays. Dividing possessions. Explaining to friends why we were getting divorced after two decades.
“I need time,” I said finally.
“How much time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe forever. Maybe until I can look at you without recalling those pictures.”
Jordan nodded slowly. “I’ll sleep in the guest room. Give you space to think.”
“Good.”
He stood up and walked toward the house. At the door, he turned back.
“Alice? I know that sorry isn’t enough. But I am sorry. I’m guilty… more than you’ll ever know.”
I watched him disappear inside. Our house suddenly felt like a stranger’s home.
The truth is, I haven’t decided anything yet. Some days I want to forgive him. Other days I want to burn down everything we built together.
Maybe love can survive this kind of betrayal. Maybe it can’t.
Right now, I’m still trying to figure out which woman I want to be. The one who stays and tries to rebuild from the ashes. Or the one who finally puts herself first after 21 years of being someone’s second choice.
I suppose we’ll both find out together… when the right time comes.
