Brandon, I’ve been thinking it’s about time we start a family. Those words should have filled me with joy. Should have made me grab her and spin her around like in the movies. Should have been the beginning of everything we’d planned, but they didn’t. My name is Brandon and I’ve been married to Joyce for exactly 1 year and 2 months.

I just walked through our apartment door after 6 months in Singapore. 6 months of sleeping 4 hours a night, closing deals, building our future. My beard was overgrown. My eyes had bags under them that looked like bruises. and every muscle in my body achd from the 17-hour flight. Joyce ran across the living room and jumped into my arms like she’d never done before, not even on our wedding day. Her smile was too wide.

Her eyes were too bright. She pressed against me and I could smell perfume, the expensive kind she only wore for special occasions. “I missed you so much,” she said, her voice almost frantic. I held her, but something felt wrong. over her shoulder as she buried her face in my neck. I saw it on the bathroom counter, clearly visible through the halfopen door.

A men’s cologne bottle, dark blue glass, square shape. Not mine. My brain started screaming, but I kept smiling. It’s time we start a family, she repeated, pulling back to look at me. Don’t you think? I thought about my mother’s hospital bed when I was 16. I thought about the three jobs she worked until her body gave out. I thought about the promise I made standing over her unconscious body.

I’ll never let anyone I love suffer like this. Everything I’d done, the construction jobs through college, the brutal business trips, the 6 month stints in Alaska’s oil fields where I worked until my hands bled. It was all to build this life, this perfect life for her. Yeah, I said, still holding her. Let’s start a family. But in my head, one word kept repeating.

Pregnant. Was she already pregnant? Was this her way of making me the fall guy? Please, before I continue, kindly like, share, and subscribe for more interesting videos. Two days passed like normal. Joyce made my favorite meals. We watched TV together. She asked about Singapore.

Everything seemed fine, but I couldn’t shake that cologne bottle. I couldn’t forget how her hug felt rehearsed. When I was 12 years old, my uncle lived with us. He was my mom’s brother, and she trusted him completely. But I noticed our rent money kept disappearing. My mom would cry thinking she’d misplaced it. One day, I took an old webcam from school and hid it behind books on our living room shelf.

3 days later, I had footage of my uncle stealing $200 from my mom’s purse. She didn’t believe me until she saw the video. That moment taught me two things. Trust your instincts, and evidence is everything. So, on Tuesday morning, I waited for Joyce to leave for her yoga class. My hands shook as I pulled the tiny cameras from their packaging, four of them, each smaller than a quarter.

I’d ordered them online using a burner credit card. The first went into the living room bookshelf hidden behind our wedding photo. Ironic. The second I installed in the bedroom smoke detector. I stood on our bed. The bed I’d bought with money earned from 72 straight days in an Alaskan oil field and carefully positioned the lens.

The third camera went above the kitchen fridge. As I was adjusting the bedroom camera, something caught my eye. on Joyce’s nightstand, a second phone charger, white Apple brand. But Joyce only had one phone, an iPhone with a black charger that stayed plugged in on her side of the bed. I stared at that white charger for a full minute whose phone had been here.

Whose phone was she charging? My stomach dropped like I’d been punched. I finished the installation, tested each camera on my phone. Crystal clear feeds. Every angle of our home now visible on an app I’d hidden in a folder labeled work files. When Joyce came home, I was sitting on the couch smiling. “How was yoga?” I asked. “Great,” she kissed my forehead.

“I’m so happy you’re home.” I watched her walk to the bedroom, watched her glance at her nightstand where that white charger sat. She unplugged it quickly and shoved it in her drawer. Thursday morning, I put my plan into motion. I packed my suitcase at 6:00 a.m., making enough noise to wake Joyce. She stumbled out of the bedroom in her pajamas, hair messy, eyes confused.

What’s going on?” she asked. “Work called,” I said, forcing my voice to sound tired and frustrated. “Emergency in Dubai. Clients threatening to pull a $2 million contract. I have to leave today.” I watched her face carefully. Was that relief in her eyes? Just for a second before she caught herself. “Oh no,” she said, coming to hug me.

“You just got back.” “I know. I’m sorry.” I held her, memorizing this moment. This lie wrapped in a lie. I’ll be back in 2 weeks, maybe three. She pulled back and I swear I saw her trying not to smile. I’ll miss you, she said. I’ll miss you, too. At the door, she teared up. Actually cried. Come back soon, okay? I’ll be waiting.

I kissed her forehead, grabbed my suitcase, and walked to the elevator. I could feel her watching through the peepphole. I pressed the button. The elevator dinged, doors opened. I got in. I watched through the closing doors as our apartment door shut. Then I pressed door open. The elevator doors slid back open. The hallway was empty.

I got out, walked to the stairwell, and went down two floors. I’d rented apartment 3023 days ago. Same building two floors down, paying cash for a month. From the stairwell window, I watched our bedroom window on the fifth floor. Joyce appeared there 30 seconds after I left. She was on her phone, smiling.

Not the sad smile of a wife missing her husband. A real smile. An excited smile. She typed something. Hit send. Laughed at the response. I pulled out my own phone and opened the camera app. All four feeds loaded perfectly. Living room empty. Kitchen empty. Bedroom. Joyce sitting on our bed, texting, grinning like a teenager. I went to my rental apartment and set up my laptop on the small dining table for camera feeds on the screen.

My phone next to it is backup. A notepad to log everything. Day one, nothing. Joyce went to work, came home, made dinner, watched Netflix, went to bed at 10:00. Day two, same routine. I started wondering if I was losing my mind. Day 3 through 7, normal, boring. She facetimed her mom, did laundry, ordered takeout.

I was beginning to think I was paranoid, that the cologne bottle belonged to her brother who’d visited, that the charger was a backup she’d bought. Then day eight happened. Joyce’s alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. on day 8. 2 hours earlier than normal. I was already awake, coffee in hand, watching the bedroom feed.

She didn’t hit snooze. She jumped up like she’d been awake for hours, grabbed her phone, checked something, and smiled. That smile made my chest tight. She went to the bathroom. The shower ran for 40 minutes. 40. She never showered that long. Through the crack in the door, I could see her shaving her legs, carefully, taking her time.

When she came out wrapped in a towel, she sat at her vanity, the one I bought her for our first anniversary in Singapore, while she couldn’t even give me 10 minutes on our video call. She did her makeup the way she used to for our dates. Foundation counter, that wine colored lipstick she knew I loved. Then she opened her closet and pulled out the red dress, the one I’d bought her last Christmas from that expensive boutique, spending half a paycheck because her eyes lit up when she saw it in the window. She’d worn it once to our

anniversary dinner that she cut short saying she was tired. She put it on now, turned in the mirror, adjusted the neckline. She looked beautiful, radiant, and it wasn’t for me. She checked her phone, giggled, typed, “Can’t wait.” face blowing. The response came immediately. She read it and bit her lip, blushing.

I wanted to believe she was meeting a girlfriend. Maybe Sarah from work. Maybe her cousin. Maybe anyone innocent. But I grabbed my car keys anyway. I watched on the camera as she left the apartment at 7:30, purse over her shoulder, checking her reflection one last time in the hallway mirror. I was in my car 30 seconds later, three vehicles behind her in traffic, my hands numb on the steering wheel.

I followed her through morning rush hour, staying back, changing lanes carefully. She drove toward downtown and my brain started racing. Was she meeting him at a hotel? An apartment? Where? Then her turn signal came on. She pulled into the Whole Foods parking lot, the grocery store. I exhaled so hard my chest hurt.

Relief flooded through me like cold water. She was just shopping, getting groceries. Normal Thursday morning errands. I was an idiot, a paranoid, jealous idiot who’d wasted money on cameras in a rental apartment because I saw a cologne bottle. I parked four rows away and watched her go inside. 20 minutes passed. She came out with two bags, loaded them in the trunk, and drove home. I didn’t follow.

I went back to my rental feeling ridiculous and relieved in equal measure. I opened my laptop. The kitchen camera showed Joyce unpacking groceries. Chicken breast, asparagus, potatoes, a bottle of red wine, the expensive kind from that vineyard we visited on our honeymoon. She was making dinner, probably meal prepping for the week.

She put the groceries away, wiped down the counter, then took out her phone. Her whole body language changed. she leaned against the counter, twirled her hair, smiled that smile again. “When are you coming over?” she said into the phone, her voice soft and flirty in a way she hadn’t spoken to me in months. “My husband is away.

” Every muscle in my body locked. “The groceries weren’t for meal prep. They were for him.” She listened to his response, laughing. “I can’t wait either. I’m going to make that chicken you loved last time.” “Last time. Last time.” She hung up and walked to the bathroom. I heard the shower start again.

I had 3 hours before my life ended. I made coffee in the rental apartment. It went cold. I didn’t drink it. I couldn’t drink it. My stomach was acid and rage. On the laptop, Joyce moved around the apartment like she was preparing for prom. She set the dining table. Not the regular plates, but the good ones. Our wedding china that we only used for holidays.

White with gold trim given to us by her grandmother. She placed candles in the center. lit them, adjusted them, blew them out to relight later. She put the wine in the fridge. She checked the chicken in the oven. She changed the sheets in our bedroom, fresh ones. The expensive Egyptian cotton I’d bought because she said they felt like sleeping on clouds. My phone buzz.

A text from my mom. How’s Joyce? Tell her I love her. I stared at it. My mom adored Joyce. Treated her like the daughter she never had. Joyce visited her twice a month, brought her flowers, sat with her for hours talking about recipes and gardening. I typed, “She’s great, Mom.” Then I deleted it. I couldn’t lie to my mother.

Not about this. I didn’t respond. At 7:47 p.m., a knock echoed through the apartment on my laptop speakers. Joyce jumped up from the couch where she’d been checking her phone every 30 seconds. She ran to the door, actually ran, smoothed her dress, checked her hair in the hallway mirror, took a breath, and opened it.

My chest felt like it was caving in. A man walked into my home, and I knew him. Mark, her boss, Mark. I recognized him instantly. 3 months ago, company Christmas party at the hotel ballroom. Joyce had been excited about it for weeks. I’d flown home from Alaska early, exhausted to be her date.

Mark had approached us by the punch bowl. You must be Brandon, he’d said, shaking my hand firmly. Professional, friendly. Joyce talks about you all the time. You’re a lucky man. I’m the lucky one, I’d said. Because that’s what you say. Joyce had blushed. Mark’s been great. Best boss I’ve ever had. On the camera feed now, Mark walked into our living room wearing jeans and a button-down shirt.

Casual, comfortable, like he’d been here before. He had been here before. Joyce kissed him. Not a peck, a real kiss. The kind she used to give me when I’d come home from trips back when we first got married. His hand went to her waist. Familiar and easy. “Smells amazing,” he said, pulling back. “Your favorite,” Joyce replied, taking his hand and leading him to the dining table.

They sat down. She poured wine into our wedding glasses. They toasted. I couldn’t hear what they said, but they laughed. She served him chicken on our wedding china. They ate, talked. She touched his arm when she laughed. He reached across the table to wipe wine from her lip with his thumb. Intimate, natural, like they’d done this a hundred times, like a real couple.

My head felt like it was exploding. Every throb was a memory. Me working 72-hour weeks. Her complaining I was never home. Me sending money for her car payment. Her saying I didn’t appreciate her. Me missing our anniversary call. Her looking bored after 3 minutes. I wanted to drive over there. Kick down the door.

beat him until my knuckles broke, but I didn’t because I’m not stupid. I’m strategic. After dinner, they moved to the couch. Joyce curled into his side, his arm around her shoulders. They watched TV, some cooking show she always said I’d find boring. At 9:15, Mark stood up, said something. Joyce nodded, took his hand. They walked to the bedroom.

My bedroom. I closed the laptop, opened it, closed it again. My hands were shaking so badly I knocked over the cold coffee. It spilled across the rentals cheap carpet, brown liquid spreading like blood. I didn’t clean it up. I opened the laptop one final time. They were kissing on my bed. The bed I bought after 72 straight days in an Alaskan oil field where the temperature hit -40 and my supervisor said I was the hardest worker he’d ever seen.

The bed where I’d promised Joyce forever on our wedding night. He was unbuttoning her red dress. The dress I bought her. In the bed I bought us. In the apartment I worked myself to exhaustion to afford. A strange smile crossed my face. Not happy, not sad, just cold, empty, like something had broken inside me and stopped feeling pain.

I thought about our anniversary 6 weeks ago. Me in Singapore holding a small cake in my hotel room at midnight, singing happy anniversary to myself on video call while she yawned and said she was tired. 3 minutes, that’s all she gave me. I just closed a $2 million deal. A $100,000 bonus was coming. Enough to start our family fund like we’d planned, but she couldn’t give me 10 minutes.