My husband started staying late at work, texting someone. One day, he brought a cat, saying he rescued her from dogs. But she was obviously a house cat.
I freaked out and took his phone while he was in the shower. I opened the messages and was stunned. It turned out he hadn’t rescued the cat from dogs.
The cat belonged to someone named “Marla”—a woman he had been texting nearly every day for weeks. At first glance, the messages didn’t scream “affair,” but there was something about the tone. Friendly.
Too friendly. The kind of friendly that made your gut twist. They talked about the cat, whose name was Miso.
Apparently, she had been Marla’s, but “she didn’t deserve her.” I kept scrolling, trying to piece it all together. Then I found it. A text that read, “You did the right thing taking her.
You saved her from that house, just like you saved me.”
My hands were shaking. My heart was thudding like a war drum. What did she mean by “just like you saved me”?
I had so many questions, and yet I was afraid of the answers. When he stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, I was sitting on the edge of the bed holding his phone like it was a live grenade. He froze.
“You went through my phone?”
I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him. The silence between us stretched long and tight.
Finally, I asked, “Who is Marla?”
He looked away. “It’s… complicated.”
Wrong answer. My voice rose without permission.
“Then uncomplicate it. Now.”
He sat down beside me, wet hair dripping onto the sheets. He stared at the floor, lips pressed together, before he finally spoke.
“She’s someone I met at the gym. Months ago. I didn’t cheat, but I… got close.
She was going through a lot. Her ex was abusive. I helped her get out.”
I blinked.
“You helped her get out?”
He nodded. “She had nowhere to go. I gave her some money, helped her find a place.
That cat was getting kicked around like furniture. I couldn’t leave Miso there. So, I took her.”
“So, now you’re a hero?” I spat, bitter.
“Sneaking around, lying to me, but saving women and cats on the side?”
“I didn’t want to lie,” he said softly. “I just didn’t want to lose you over something that wasn’t… what you think it is.”
The thing is, I wanted to believe him. I really did.
But when someone lies—even for what they say are good reasons—the truth feels like sand in your hands. It slips away before you can hold it. I couldn’t sleep that night.
Miso sat curled up beside me like she belonged there. She purred when I touched her head. Innocent.
Sweet. Just a cat. And yet, a living reminder of something broken between us.
The next day, I called in sick. I needed space. Time.
I told him I wanted to stay with my sister for a few days. He didn’t argue. He just nodded, helped me pack a bag, and kissed my forehead before I left.
At my sister’s place, I told her everything. She listened, chewing on the sleeve of her hoodie, like she was twelve again and we were hiding from our parents in the linen closet. “I don’t think he cheated,” I said.
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