I discovered a bottle of intimacy gel in my husband’s car. I didn’t confront him. Instead, I quietly swapped it out for a tube filled with heavy-duty adhesive. The following day, from my neighbor’s window, I spotted him sneaking into our house with my daughter-in-law. Moments later, an urgent call went out—and our son, the local fire captain, was dispatched to the scene. He had no idea who he was about to rescue…
I slid into the driver’s seat of my husband’s SUV and opened the glove compartment. Inside was a small container of personal gel. My lips pressed into a hard line. I didn’t argue, I didn’t scream. I just replaced it with clear industrial bonding glue. What happened afterward forced our neighbors to dial emergency services and call the fire brigade.
At the kitchen table, the silence felt as heavy as fog at dawn, an unwelcome companion that had lingered too long. The old clock on the wall—my mother’s wedding gift—ticked with a merciless beat, every second a sharp reminder that the life I was living was nothing more than an elegant lie.
My husband, Julian, stumbled in from yet another so-called “business dinner.” He didn’t just look tired—he looked haunted, as though carrying a secret too heavy for his shoulders. His jacket landed carelessly on the couch, his tie loosened like a man gasping for freedom, before he collapsed onto the bed without showering. The scent of his cologne clung to the room, tainted by a sugary floral perfume that did not belong to me. Minutes later, his snoring filled the air—a sound that once soothed me, now only mocked my stupidity.
