My husband sent me and the kids to a hotel for two weeks, claiming the house had rats and needed disinfection. I believed him… until I drove by and saw a woman inside. I was shaken — but nothing prepared me for what he confessed next.
We weren’t perfect, but we kept things together: morning grumbles in traffic, Friday take-out, shared Netflix, and our kids, Emma and Noah, aged four and six, who still thought their dad could do no wrong. Then one evening Mark came home looking nervous and told me:
“I think we have a serious problem — I found rat droppings behind the kitchen cabinets and in the basement. I called a specialist. They said we must vacate the house for two weeks for deep disinfection.”
I didn’t argue. Last winter he insisted on replacing all the smoke detectors after watching a safety video. Still — sending us away for two weeks for “disinfection” felt strange. “Where are we supposed to go?” I asked.