Jake and I had been married two years. We cooked together, went to bed together, texted all day. Then the texts slowed. He worked late. I told myself it was nothing.
One night, as he slept, he said a name—“Marlena.” Clear. Urgent. Intimate.
I woke him. He denied it. Said I was dreaming.
But it kept happening. Every night for three weeks.
He came home late, guarded his phone, brushed me off. I stopped waking him and started watching. None of us knew a Marlena. So who was she?
One night, I checked his phone.
There she was: Marlena in his contacts.
He’d lied.
I copied the number and called her the next morning.
“I’m Jake’s wife,” I said.
She paused. Calm. Careful. “We work together. That’s all I can say.”
That was enough. I drove to his office with a fake lunch as an excuse.
Jake looked exhausted behind piles of paperwork. Then the door opened.
It was her.
“Marlena,” she said, shaking my hand. “Internal compliance supervisor.”
Jake wasn’t cheating. He was under review for serious mistakes at work. The late nights, the stress, the name in his sleep—it was fear.
He said he lied to protect me.
But for three weeks, I thought my marriage was over.
“Marlena” wasn’t another woman.
It was the truth he was too scared to tell.
And I wasn’t sure that was any better.