For four years, I was proud of how my husband cared for his mother, until a phone call turned my whole life upside down…

We’ve been married for twenty-six years. Just an ordinary family. Work, daily routine, the kids grew up and moved out. My mother-in-law lived alone in her house in the countryside. My husband used to go and help her. That’s how it always was.

Four years ago, he said that his mother was getting old, and it was hard for her to manage alone. That he would go every Friday to help around the house. To dig the garden, chop firewood, fix things. I agreed. It was the right thing to do; she’s an elderly woman, she needs help.

Every Friday, he would leave after work. I would prepare food for him to take. I baked pies, made cutlets, so his mother wouldn’t have to cook for him. He’d pack his bag and leave. He’d come back on Sunday evenings.

I would ask how his mother was doing, how things were. He would reply that everything was fine, she was managing. That he helped around the house, they talked, everything was good. I was happy to have such a caring husband.

I saw my mother-in-law rarely. Once every two or three months, my husband would suggest going together, but I usually declined—work, chores, I’m tired from the week. I said he could handle it himself. The last time I saw her was almost a year ago. She didn’t look well, complained about her health, but didn’t like doctors. I advised her to get checked up, she just brushed it off.

Two years passed. I asked about my mother-in-law less and less. My husband said she was holding up, that everything was stable. I believed him.

Yesterday, an unfamiliar woman called. She introduced herself as my mother-in-law’s neighbor. She was crying on the phone, speaking incoherently.

She said she’d kept quiet for a long time but couldn’t do it anymore. That her conscience was keeping her awake at night. That she had to tell me the truth.

I didn’t understand what she was talking about. I asked her to explain.

She asked if I knew that my husband went to my mother-in-law’s house every Friday. I answered that I did. That he went to help his mother.

She fell silent. Then she quietly asked, “My dear, which mother are you talking about? She died two years ago…”

I didn’t grasp her words at first. I asked again. She repeated slowly: my mother-in-law had died two years ago. A heart attack. The neighbors found her. My husband came, organized the funeral. Quickly, quietly, without announcements. The neighbors were there. I wasn’t.

My heart pounded wildly. I tried to remember—did my husband call two years ago, did he say anything? No. There was nothing. No funerals. No tears. He just continued to go every Friday.

The neighbor continued. She said that the house has been empty since then. That my husband really does come every Friday. But not alone. With a woman. A young one. They stay there together all weekend. She sees their car, sees the lights in the windows. She saw them in the yard a few times.

I held the phone, listening. She said she had thought for a long time whether to tell me or not. That she was afraid to interfere. But her conscience was eating away at her. That it was wrong, that I should know.

I asked if she was sure. She replied that she was absolutely sure. That she’d seen them many times. That the whole street knew. That my husband comes every Friday with this woman, they spend the weekends there, leave on Sunday.

I hung up the phone. Sat in the kitchen. Looked at the bag of food I had prepared this morning. Today is Friday. My husband will come from work, take the bag, say he’s going to his mother. To his dead mother. With his living mistress.

Four years. For four years, he went to his mother. The last two years—to his dead mother. Lying to my face. Taking my food. Saying he was helping. But he was spending the weekends with another woman in the house of the deceased mother-in-law.

My husband came home in the evening. Took the bag, as usual. Said he was going to his mother, would be back on Sunday.

I asked: “Which mother?”

He stopped. Looked at me. Repeated that he was going to his mother.

I said that a neighbor had called me.

He went pale. Was silent for a minute. Then breathed out quietly: “I can explain.”

I asked him to explain.

He began to say that yes, he was seeing a woman. That it began two years ago. That his mother had died, he didn’t tell me because he was afraid of my reaction. That the house was standing empty, he decided to use it. That they have a serious relationship.

I asked about the food I prepared.

He said they ate it together. That she couldn’t cook. That my food helped a lot.

He left that evening. Said he would think about what to do next. He hasn’t returned yet. Calls, asks to meet, to talk.

I sit at home alone. Look at the kitchen where for four years, every Friday, I prepared food for him for the road. Baked pies. Worried that he was getting tired helping his mother. Was proud of him.

And he was going to his lover. Hiding his own mother’s death. Lied for two years. Took my food. Fed it to another woman. Used his deceased mother’s house for infidelity.

Tell me, can such a thing be forgiven? Or is lying over four years, hiding the death of his mother, and exploiting my care something one cannot recover from? And how to live on realizing that for four years, I was a complete fool?