For years, I thought my husband Stan and I were living a fairy tale until I discovered he was renting a secret house on the outskirts. What I found when I visited unveiled a heart-stopping truth, exposing the dark reality of the man I thought I knew.
My husband Stan was my soulmate, not just a partner I shared the same roof or bed with, and I happily put his wishes first, even delaying having children. Then, one day, a forgotten phone revealed the painful truth: my husband wasn’t who I thought he was.
Seven years ago, Stan and I met during a press conference in Tokyo. We’ve been together ever since, married for five of those golden years. He seemed perfect in every sense of the word. “Mindy, you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” Stan once said, collapsing onto our plush sofa after a long day at work. “But seeing your face makes it all better.”
I smiled, settling next to him. “Tell me about it. I want to hear everything.”
Those days were when we couldn’t get enough of each other. Stan showered me with precious gifts, but after some time, I got bored of his expensive gifts. I wanted him, his time, and not those materialistic sparkly diamonds or opulent pearls.
“Another necklace?” I once asked, trying to mask my disappointment as I opened the velvet box.
Stan beamed, oblivious to my tone. “Only the best for you, darling.”
Stan worked in an office in an amazing position and made a lot of money. But the thing is, he started spending more time at work while I stayed at home, dusting, cooking, and cleaning. Stan had little time for me, and I missed those days when we used to Netflix binge, bake together, or even grab some good sleep. Stan started coming home late, and I’d be mostly asleep. His focus shifted entirely to work, and as his career climbed new heights, our connection dwindled.
So while I was already sad at Stan not spending time with me, on a fateful morning, right after my husband left for work, I noticed he’d forgotten his phone on the table in a hurry.
I was doing laundry and refilling the vases with fresh garden flowers when his phone buzzed suddenly. Curiosity overcame me, and I impulsively grabbed it to check the message.
Stan had locked his phone, but he little knew I had once seen his pattern lock and knew it by heart, though I never snooped into his phone or privacy before. But something compelled me to check the message after seeing it written in all caps with the words “final reminder.”
So I unlocked Stan’s phone and saw the message: “STAN! THIS IS YOUR FINAL REMINDER TO PAY THE RENT FOR THE HOUSE, OR I’LL HAVE TO RENT IT TO SOMEONE ELSE! TOMORROW IS THE DEADLINE!”
For illustrative purpose only. (Pexels)
I read it again, my hands shook. Stan was renting a house? Without telling me? I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Just then, Stan called my phone. “Hey, honey. I left my phone at home. I’ll be home late tonight… important client meeting.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Fine!”
The rest of the day was a blur as I obsessively checked the clock. At precisely five o’clock, I hailed a cab, directing the driver to Stan’s office.
I didn’t take my yellow Mini Cooper, because I didn’t want to risk Stan finding out I was following him.
“I need to be there a bit early,” I told myself, my heart pounding. “I have to find out what he’s up to.”
At 6 p.m. sharp, I saw Stan leaving his office and get in his car, driving to the outskirts of the city. Weird.
“Follow that car,” I instructed the driver, feeling like I was in some kind of spy movie.
After what felt like an eternity on wheels, Stan parked outside a small, rundown house and went inside the building.
I asked the cabbie to wait, and went after Stan ten minutes later. My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob.
I slowly opened the door and nearly lost my breath when I saw Stan sitting on a chair near an easel of painting. What was going on?
I barged inside, and Stan’s face turned pale as though he’d seen a ghost.
“M-Mindy?” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”
I refused to answer his question, my eyes darting around the room filled with canvases and paint tubes. “What on earth are you doing here, Stan? Why did you rent this house?”
He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping.
“This house is my escape from the daily grind. It’s where I come to refresh and refocus.”
I felt a surge of relief and confusion. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was embarrassed about my hobby, given my high-profile job. I feared your teasing.”, Stan answered.
I moved closer, my anger softening. “Stan, I’d never laugh at something that makes you happy. But why all the secrecy?”
I wanted to believe him, but my instincts told me he was still hiding something from me. And I was right.
Just two minutes later, someone knocked on the door.
Stan told me to go home and he would explain everything later.
But I was already moving towards the door. “No, I think I’ll get my answers now.”
“Mindy, wait—”
Stan tried to stopp me, but I approached the door and opened it, only to stand back in sh:ock.
A young, beautiful brunette stood in the doorway, chewing bubblegum and eyeing me curiously.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Luke’s girlfriend. He paints portraits of me. And who are you? What are you doing here?”, she answered
“Luke? Girlfriend?” I sputtered. Then, finding my voice, I declared, “I’m his WIFE! And his name’s STAN! Not Luke!”
The girl was in shoc:k. Before I could process what was happening, Stan rushed past me, pushing the girl away and slamming the door shut.
He turned to me, his face ashen. “Mindy, I can explain—”
“What’s going on, Stan? Who is she?”
I saw that all the easels were draped with beige cloth. With trembling hands, I pulled the cloth off the nearest one.
My breath caught in my throat. It was a painting of a half-naked woman, the same woman who had just been at the door.
I broke out tears as I moved from easel to easel, uncovering more paintings.
“Mindy, please,” Stan begged. “It’s not what you think—”
But I didn’t want to listen to anything from him. I dropped to my knees, pulling out more canvases from under the bed. They were all the same—portraits of scantily clad women in suggestive poses. And then I found the photos.
For illustrative purpose only. (Pexels)
“Oh God,” I choked out, staring at images of Stan… my Stan… in compromising positions with these women.
The truth hit me like a freight train. Stan was che:ating on me.
“It was a mistake,” he kept saying, his words tumbling over each other. “Some kind of obsession I can’t overcome. Mindy, please—”
But I was already moving towards the door, my vision blurred by tears.
“Mindy, wait!” Stan called after me. “Let me explain!”
I ignored his pleas, and stumbled out into the night air. My whole body shook as I got into the cab, Stan’s cries still echoing in my ears.
I raced home and frantically packed before seeking refuge at my aunt’s place. The next morning, I called my lawyer and initiated divorce proceedings.
Two weeks later, as I wait for the divorce proceedings to begin, I can’t stop shaking.
How could I have shared my life with someone like Stan? How could I have been so blind?
I reported him to the police, shattering his carefully curated public image. It felt like the only way to reclaim some power in this nightmare.
I sit in my new apartment, staring at the walls. I can’t help but think about how quickly my “perfect” marriage crumbled. It was as fragile as glass, shattering into a million pieces at my feet.
I don’t know how long it will take to heal from these scars. The betrayal runs deep, inflicted by the very man I worshipped, trusted, and loved.
