My husband, Mark, had always been someone overflowing with ideas. He was the type of man who would pick up a self-help book one week and completely reorganize his life around it the next. So when he came home one evening with bright eyes, a calm voice, and said, “Jenny, I think we should live separately for a month,” I honestly thought it was just another one of his impulsive phases.
“Separately?” I repeated, blinking at him from across the dining table. “Like a trial separation?”
He gave me that familiar smile he used whenever he wanted something to sound harmless. “No, no, nothing like that. More like… a reset. A little space so we can appreciate each other again. You know, sometimes couples need time apart to spark things up again.”
It was the kind of idea that looked meaningful on paper but felt empty in real life. Still, I just stared at him, waiting for a real explanation.
“We’ve been married nine years,” he continued, setting his fork down. “I love you, Jenny. But lately, it feels like we’ve been… stuck. Repetitive. I thought that maybe if we each had our own space for a bit, we’d start missing each other again. Bring back some spark.”
I let out a weak laugh. “So, absence makes the heart grow fonder?”
He grinned, clearly relieved that I wasn’t yelling. “Exactly.”
The truth was, our marriage had been running on autopilot. Not bad, not broken, just dull. He worked long hours in marketing, I taught third graders, and our days blended into the same routine. I couldn’t deny that something felt distant. But him moving out? That felt extreme.
“Where would you even stay?” I asked.
“I was thinking I could stay in the condo my cousin is subletting downtown. It’s only for a month. You’d have the house to yourself, do whatever you want. Take a breather.”
There was something in how he said it—too smooth, too practiced. But I was exhausted, and arguing about “space” felt like giving him more ammunition to claim I was suffocating him.
So, against my better judgment, I agreed.
The first week felt strange but oddly freeing. I spent my evenings reading in bed without the TV blasting sports highlights. I cooked what I liked—pasta and stir-fry instead of steak and potatoes.
I FaceTimed my sister, something I hadn’t done in months, and told her Mark was “trying something new.” She raised an eyebrow. “Jenny, that sounds strange. Are you sure he’s not trying to live like a bachelor again?”
I laughed it off, but her words stuck with me.
Mark called a few times that week, mostly to check in. “Miss you,” he’d say, although his voice didn’t carry the warmth it once had. When I asked what he’d been doing, he was vague. “Just catching up on work, hanging with the guys.”
By the third week, his texts grew rare. I tried keeping myself busy with grading, yoga, and repainting the guest room, but the silence started eating at me.
Then came the call.
It was a Saturday morning, and I was helping a friend at her booth at the farmer’s market when my phone rang. It was my neighbor, Mrs. Larson—the older woman across the street who noticed everything.
“Jenny?” she said breathlessly. “Honey, you need to get home immediately.”
My heart raced. “Why? What’s going on?”
“There’s a woman in your bedroom. I saw her through the window. Blonde, around thirty, wearing one of your robes!”
For a moment, I thought she had to be mistaken. “Mrs. Larson, Mark isn’t supposed to be there. Maybe it’s—”
“She is there right now,” she insisted. “I saw her make herself coffee in your kitchen. She’s acting like she lives there.”