On Friday, my husband said he was going on a business trip for three days. Yesterday, I saw his car near the neighboring house and realized that all this time he…

On Friday morning, my husband told me he was going on a business trip for three days—an important project, meetings with partners. I helped him pack his bag, saw him off to the car, kissed him goodbye. He left, and I returned to the empty apartment, ready to spend the weekend alone.

Yesterday afternoon, I went to the store through the neighboring courtyard—I decided to take a shortcut. And I froze on the spot. In the parking lot near house number seventeen stood his car. I would recognize that number out of a thousand—the same scratch on the fender, the same dent on the rear bumper.

My heart sank. I came closer, checked the license plate—definitely his. The car was parked as if it was left for a long time, not hastily.

The first thought—mistress. He rents an apartment in the neighboring house while I think he’s in another city. My hands trembled, panic and rage rose inside me simultaneously. I wanted to burst into the building immediately, call all the apartments, find her.

But I made myself stop. I took a deep breath, stepped aside, and sat on a bench. I needed to think.

In the evening, I returned. The car was still there. I sat on the same bench for two hours, watching the windows of the house. No one came out. Wild theories swirled in my head—a double life, another family, a secret apartment with a mistress.

The next morning I came again. The car was in the same place. I dialed his number. He answered with a cheerful voice, as if nothing was happening. He said everything was fine, the meetings were going well, and he missed me.

I asked as calmly as possible: “Where are you right now?”

He named a city three hundred kilometers away. So, he’s lying to my face.

I hung up and called the concierge of the seventeenth house. I introduced myself as an employee of the management company, said I was clarifying information about the car owner for a parking permit. The concierge turned out to be talkative.

“Ah, he’s a resident from apartment forty-two. He’s been renting for the second month. A quiet man, decent.”

The second month.

I remembered—he indeed went on a business trip a month ago. And even earlier. Always for three days, always with the same explanations about work and meetings.

In the evening, I couldn’t stand it. I went up to the fourth floor of the seventeenth house, found apartment forty-two, and rang the doorbell.

He opened the door. My husband. In home pants and an old t-shirt. His face instantly turned pale when he saw me on the threshold.

We stood in silence. He stepped back first, silently letting me in.

A one-room apartment. Modest furniture, clean, tidy. On the table, a laptop, a stack of books, a half-drunk cup of coffee. No women’s things. No signs of someone else’s presence. Just him.

I turned to him: “Explain.”

He sat down on the couch, buried his head in his hands. He was silent for a long time. Then he began to speak quietly, without raising his eyes.

It turned out, for the past six months, he felt like he was suffocating. Constant work, responsibilities, household chores, endless conversations about domestic problems. He wanted silence. Just to be alone—without demands, without questions, without the necessity to be a husband, a provider, a support.

Two months ago, he rented this apartment. He comes here once a month for three days. Just sits, reads, watches movies, thinks. No meetings, no women. Just him and silence.

I listened and didn’t understand what I felt. Relief that there was no infidelity? Resentment that he lied? Anger that he spent money on rent instead of having an open conversation?

I asked: “Why couldn’t you just say it? Ask for a weekend for yourself? Go somewhere alone? Why lie about business trips and hide two steps away from home?”

He raised his eyes, and there was such weariness in them that it made me uneasy.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand. You’d think that I’m unhappy with you. That I want to leave. But I don’t want to leave. I just need a break. But how to explain it without hurting you? It was easier to invent a business trip.”

We sat in that strange apartment in silence. I thought about how after fifteen years of marriage, we forgot how to tell the truth. He was afraid to say he was tired. I didn’t notice that he was struggling. We lived side by side, shared a bed and life—yet we were completely alone.

Today he moved out from there. Came back home. We are together again. But inside, I still have no answer: am I guilty for driving him to escape? Or did he chicken out, choosing lies over an honest conversation?

If you were in my place—would you forgive your husband for this? Or is the desire to escape from the family, even for three days in the neighboring house, already the end? What would you do?

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On Friday morning my husband said he was leaving on a business trip for three days. I helped him pack his things, kissed him goodbye and waved as his car drove away. Yesterday I went to the store and decided to cut through the neighboring yard, and froze in place – his car was parked near house number 17. The same scratch on the fender, the same license plates. My heart started pounding wildly. That meant he had been just a few steps away from me all those days, lying and hiding. But the truth turned out to be scarier than any betrayal…
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