I chose to pursue my husband because I believed he had a mistress, but I was astonished to learn what he was actually concealing from me. 
My hubby had been acting oddly lately. He appeared to avoid talks, stayed late at work, and arrived home late. He simply ignored me whenever I tried to ask him what was happening, occasionally grinning as though I was making this up. Everything pointed to the possibility that he was seeing someone else.
For a long period, I plagued myself with suspicions. When I finally had enough, I asked him straight out:
— Are you seeing someone else?
He responded, laughing:
— Are you insane?
However, I was not at all reassured by the ease with which he uttered it. The uncertainties persisted.
A friend then suggested that I set up a tracking app on his phone. After much hesitation, I followed her instructions. To my dismay, I soon learned that my husband actually spent two to three hours in the same location—a town outside of the city—after work.
I made the decision right away to go and check it out for myself.
I noticed that he was going to that address once more when I opened the app one evening. I was certain I would see a hotel or a house where his mistress was waiting, and my heart was racing with resentment and hatred. However, there was an old wooden house with a crooked shed when I got there.
I entered the yard gently. The only sound was the creaking of the planks beneath my feet. I gingerly opened the house’s door, which was unlocked.
The fragrance hit me first. Suffocating, rancid, heavy. I imagined moisture, mold, and a deserted house. However, the fragrance got stronger the farther I went inside.
I saw a terrible thing in a dark place. I’ll be honest: I would have rather had a mistress there than what I saw.
There were enormous black bags in the corner. Some are half-open, some are tightly fastened. The floor was covered in dark, wet stains, and without even looking, I knew what was going on.
A human hand protruded from a bag that was improperly secured. Dead and white, with a broken fingernail.
I went cold. I wanted to scream but was unable to do so.
What are you doing here, you? — Behind me, I heard my husband’s voice.
Breathing deeply, he stood in the doorway. He had a crowbar in his hands. When I saw his face, I knew that this was not the man I had spent so many years with.
I could hardly speak as I murmured, “Who… is this?”
After a brief period of silence, he grinned icily.
I believed you would never discover this location.
I took a step back, but the chilly wall was all that was behind me. With a firm hold on the crowbar, he stepped toward me.
He said, “It would have been better if I really had a mistress, right?” If nothing else, you would have had the opportunity to live in peace.
I understood that he would decide what to do with me in another second. It was instinct. I sprinted out the door, jumped over the threshold, and stumbled on the floor.
I was chased by his scream:
— You’ll never be believed! Never!
The saddest part is that I was aware that might be true. He had always been seen by others as the ideal husband—a trustworthy individual.
