For years, I never questioned Tom’s frequent business trips. He was a devoted husband and father to our five children,

steady and dependable. But when a friend casually mentioned his company hadn’t approved travel for months,

doubt crept in. The next time Tom said he was flying to Boston, I secretly booked myself on the same flight.

My heart pounded as I followed him through unfamiliar streets until he stopped at a modest home. A young woman

opened the door, greeting him with warmth that made my stomach sink. I drove home in tears, certain my marriage

was a lie. Days later, when Tom returned, I confronted him, bracing for betrayal. Instead, he confessed the truth.

The woman, Jessica, was an old friend whose mother was gravely ill. She had been struggling, and Tom had been quietly helping with groceries, repairs,

and emotional support. He admitted hiding it because he feared it would look suspicious. I was torn — angry, but sensing his sincerity.

At his urging, we invited Jessica to dinner. Through tears, she apologized and assured me nothing improper

had happened. In that honesty, I saw no rival — only survival. That night marked a fragile but real beginning of healing.