I thought I was going crazy when I kept finding another woman’s things in my house, until the day I walked into my bedroom and saw the red dress that proved something was very, very wrong.
I was 29, Tom was 31, and if you’d asked me a year earlier, I would have said we were a pretty normal married couple. We had our first house in the suburbs, a shared Netflix account, and arguments about who’d forgotten to buy toilet paper.
We had been together for five years, married for three, and the house was the first thing I had truly felt was mine.
If you had asked me a year earlier,
I would have said that we were
a fairly normal marriage.
Beige builder’s walls, of course, but I had chosen the rugs, the cushions, the prints in the hallway.
I had split the down payment.
I had signed the mortgage.
He could say, “This is my home,” and he meant it.
I had signed the mortgage.
Tom worked from home. He lived in the land of tracksuits and headphones.
I was out most days, from nine to six, at my office job.
That detail mattered.
Because then his mother moved away.
Linda and I had never been friends. She lived a few states away, and honestly, the distance had been the biggest obstacle in our relationship.
Linda and I had never been best friends.
She called herself “old-fashioned,” which was code for “I think my son married the wrong woman, and I’m not subtle about it.”
In her opinion, I was too focused on my career.
Too noisy. Too “modern”.
I had heard all that.
Then one night, Tom’s phone rang. I could hear Linda even before he put it on speakerphone.
In her opinion, I was too focused on my career.
“Tommy, the pipes have burst,” she sobbed. “The roof is destroyed, they’ve cut off the water, I can’t stay here, I don’t know what I’m going to do…”
Tom responded immediately. “You can stay with us, Mom. Of course. For as long as you need.”
Without looking at me.
Just boom! New roommate unlocked.
“Tommy, the pipes have burst.”
***
My mother showed up two days later with three suitcases. From day one, she had a mission.
“Honey,” she said, opening my cupboards, “who organized this? It doesn’t make sense. The dishes should be here.” She started moving things around.
“It’s… my system,” I said carefully.
“Well, we’ll fix it. You’re busy, I understand.” She walked into the living room and grimaced. “All this gray. It’s so cold. So young. It still doesn’t feel like a real home.”
My mother appeared two days later
with three suitcases.
Tom, the traitor that he was, shrugged.
“I told you we could use your touch, Mom.”
When I left for work the next morning, Linda stood at the door like a suburban judge.
“So early,” she sighed. “In my day, a wife made sure her husband had a hot breakfast first.”
I bit my tongue. I had a meeting in forty minutes and I didn’t have the energy for World War III at 8 a.m.
“In my day, a wife made sure that
that her husband had a hot breakfast.”
Tom texted me an hour later: “Are you okay? Mom was just kidding.”
Sure, hilarious.
At the time, I had no idea that the next sign would not be a comment or a look: it would be something I found in my own bedroom that didn’t belong to anyone in that house.
I told myself I could handle it. I could put up with it for a few weeks. I’d survived worse than passive-aggressive comments and reorganized closets.
But then I started finding things.
I told myself I could handle it.
***
It was a Tuesday night. I was brushing my teeth when I noticed a black satin scrunchie on my nightstand. Pretty, shiny, not really my style. I wore those basic elastic scrunchies that came in a pack of fifty.
I picked it up and turned it over.
“Hey, did you leave this here?”
Tom rolled his chair out of the office and squinted. “It’s probably yours or Mom’s.”
I noticed a black satin scrunchie
on my bedside table.
“Definitely not mine! And your mother has like two inches of hair.”
“Then I don’t know. It’s just a hair tie, babe. Don’t overthink it.”
I dropped it in the junk drawer of my bedside table.
Good.
Weird, but good.
“Don’t overthink it.”
***
Two days later, I was rummaging through the sofa cushions for the TV remote. My fingers brushed against something silky. I pulled out a pair of sheer black stockings.
Wrong size. Wrong brand. Everything wrong.
“Ew!” I said aloud, reaching my hand behind me.
I went into the kitchen, where I was “reorganizing” my spices.
“Hey, I found this on the couch,” I said, picking it up with two fingers.
“Disgusting!”.
Linda looked, smiled, and raised an eyebrow.
“They’re not mine, darling. I haven’t worn stockings like that in decades.”
Tom came in for coffee and looked up. “Why are you obsessing over some random load of laundry?”
“Because it’s not mine,” I said slowly. “Then whose is it?”
“So, whose is it?”
He kissed the top of my head like I was a little girl having a tantrum.
“You’re making a fuss out of nothing.”
Linda chuckled. “Jealousy is so unattractive in a woman.”
I stood there holding someone else’s stockings and felt that cold sinking sensation in my stomach, the one that whispered, “Pay attention.”
“Jealousy is so unattractive in a woman.”
That night, after work, when I finally got into bed, I noticed something else: a faint scent of perfume on Tom’s pillow. Not mine. Nor the powdery aroma of Linda’s grandmother.
If I was the only woman living there… then who else had been close enough to his pillow to leave her scent?
And I still had no idea that what I would find next wouldn’t fit in my hand. Or in my mind.
I realized something else.
***
I knew something was wrong, but nothing prepared me for what I encountered that Friday.
Work had been brutal. The traffic was worse. All I wanted was to collapse onto my bed and forget the world existed. Instead, I opened the bedroom door… and froze.
On my side of the bed was a short, tight-fitting red dress.
And the blankets were wrinkled, as if someone had been sitting there. Or doing something else.
I opened the bedroom door…
and I was frozen.
I approached. The fabric was soft, expensive, and the label said a brand I would never splurge on.
I felt like I was walking into a crime scene that I didn’t know how to interpret.
I stormed into Tom’s office. He was in the middle of a call. I didn’t care.
“What the hell is this?” I demanded, waving the dress.
I stormed into Tom’s office.
He seemed annoyed, but not guilty. “Really? It’s Emily’s. Relax.”
“Who is Emily?”
“The daughter of a friend of my mom’s. She’s an interior designer. Mom has had her come over several times to give us ideas. She’s always saying she doesn’t have time to finish decorating.”
“Does that explain why her dress is on my bed?”
“Oh really?
It’s Emily’s.
Relax.
“It’s been changed here. Mom told her that the lighting in our room is good for photos. You’re exaggerating.”
Before he could answer, Linda appeared in the doorway as if she had been waiting for his signal.
“Emily has excellent taste. When she’s finished, this will finally look like an adult house.”
“Things have changed here.”
At that moment, something inside me froze in a disturbing way. I dropped the dress on the floor and looked at the two of them.
“Understood”.
Just two words.
Because, at last, he understood the rules of the game they thought they were playing.
Something inside me
He remained eerily still.
***
During the following week, I paid attention. Tom kept talking about Emily.
“Emily says the bedroom needs a bigger headboard.”
“Emily thinks the clutter on your nightstand makes the room look small.”
“Emily says we should open that wall.”
All the sentences began with “Emily says”.
Tom wouldn’t shut up
about Emily.
And suddenly she dressed better. She buttoned up at two in the afternoon and sprayed herself with cologne before going to “help Mom” at the salon. Every time she said, “I’d like to be here when this designer comes,” Linda had a magic excuse ready:
“Oh, he was just here.”
That was the moment I made up my mind. If they wanted to light me up with gas, fine. But I wasn’t going to rely on guesswork anymore.
If they wanted
gaslight me,
good.
***
The following Thursday I told them I had an early training session and that I might have breakfast later. Linda cheered up right away.
“Oh, Emily was going to check on the bedroom again. It’s a shame you miss her.”
“Yes. What a shame.”
So I grabbed my gym bag and headed out the door. Except I didn’t go to the gym. And I didn’t go to work. I had a different plan, one they wouldn’t see coming.
I didn’t go to the gym.
***
I parked on the next street over, walked through the strip of trees behind our house, and crept up to the bedroom window. Our house was only one story, and I’d climbed through that window before when I’d been locked out.
I opened it slowly, stepped inside, and closed it behind me. I drew the curtains almost shut, squeezed myself into the narrow space between the dresser and the wall, and waited.
Forty minutes later, I heard the front door. Then voices. Footsteps in the hallway.
The bedroom door burst open.
I opened it slowly,
between,
and I closed it behind me.
Through the narrow opening, I saw a beautiful blonde woman enter, her handbag bumping against her hip, her eyes scanning the room as if it were already hers.
“It’s a great space,” she said. “But yes, the furniture is a bit… new. Lots of small pieces. There’s nothing to give it a sense of solidity.”
“It’s all his stuff,” Linda added proudly. “He buys everything online. My son doesn’t care about any of it.”
Tom snorted. “She loves impulse buys.”
“It’s all his junk.”
Emily walked over to the window. “The light in here is amazing. We could take some great photos of you, Tom. Something clean and professional.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “As long as you Photoshop my double chin.”
“You don’t have any,” she laughed. “You look good.”
Linda clapped her hands. “You’re adorable.”
“You look good.”
Then Emily lowered her voice. “Are you saying things are bad with your wife?”
My stomach dropped.
Tom opened his mouth, but Linda spoke first.
“She’s hardly ever home. She doesn’t cook, she doesn’t take care of the house, and she won’t be having kids anytime soon. I don’t even know why she got married. They’re basically just roommates.”
Tom didn’t correct her. Not a single word.
“Are you saying things are going badly?”
with your wife.”
“That’s why I thought,” Linda continued, “that if things don’t work out, you and Tom would make a lovely couple. You already have such great chemistry.”
Emily laughed softly. “You’re terrible.”
Tom shrugged, almost shyly. “She’s always trying to set me up, even when I’m not single.”
Emily smiled. “Well… if you ever are…”
And that’s when he said it.
“Tom and you would
“A beautiful couple.”
“I’ll keep you in mind.”
No, “I’m not married.”
“I’ll keep you in mind.”
At that moment, I came out from behind the dresser.
“Wow! This room was really getting a complete makeover. New curtains, new furniture, a new wife…”
I left
from behind the dresser.
Tom’s face went pale. “I thought you’d trained.”
“Yes. I changed my mind. I decided I had enough clowns for one day.”
Emily stepped back. “I… was just here to help with the room.”
“Really? Because I heard another offer just minutes before.”
“I… I’ve only come
to help with the room.”
I turned to Linda.
“And you. Matching your son with another woman while you talk about me as if I no longer exist. Incredible work ethic, really.”
Tom snapped, “You’re twisting everything.”
“No,” I said. “I heard you. You didn’t defend me once. Not when he tore me apart. Not when he introduced Emily as your best friend. Not when Emily flirted with you. You laughed. You flirted back.”
“You’re twisting everything.”
I went over to the nightstand, took off my wedding ring, and carefully placed it on the small plate where I kept my earrings. Emily’s eyes widened. Linda inhaled sharply, delighted.
“Oh, please,” said Tom. “Anyway, it’s not a great loss. You’re not exactly…exciting anymore.”
I stared at him. The man I had married was gone, replaced by a cheap imitation built from his mother’s worst qualities.
“Anyway, it’s not a big loss.”
You’re not exactly… anymore
exciting”.
Linda’s face lit up as if she’d been waiting for this moment for years. “Finally. Maybe now you’ll pack your bags and stop dragging this out.”
I let out a small laugh. I was astonished to see how stupid the two of them looked standing there, united in their delusion.
“Actually, yes, I have packed my suitcase. But not for what you think.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
I let out a short laugh.
“It means,” I said, lifting the small travel bag, “that I was going to stay with my friend tonight so I wouldn’t have to watch you guys do your thing.”
Linda’s smile vanished. “What did you say?”
“This,” I said, gesturing around the room, “is my house. I paid for it. I decorated it. I maintained it. And, you’ll remember this part, Tom, our prenuptial agreement says that the unfaithful spouse receives nothing from the marital property. Not even a cushion.”
“What did you say?”
“Is this what you call being unfaithful?”
In response, I took my phone out of my pocket, unlocked it, and tapped a file. The room filled with their own voices: “If you’re ever single… I’ll keep you in mind.”
“And if that wasn’t convincing enough,” I continued, pulling out my second phone, “here.”
I took a series of photos: The satin scrunchie. The black stockings. The red dress spread out on my side of the bed. All of them dated and time-stamped.
I took a series of photos.
Tom spoke first. “This doesn’t prove…”
“My lawyer will decide what to prove. And she’s very good at making things seem convincing. Especially when they’re already true.”
I zipped my bag slowly, deliberately, letting the silence linger. “So I’m going to my friend’s. She’ll help me relax while you two figure out where you’ll sleep tonight. Because it certainly isn’t here.”
“My lawyer will decide.”
which proves.”
Tom’s voice cracked. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course. And unlike you, I know exactly where the line is and I know when it’s been crossed.”
I went outside and lifted my chin to the cool, clean air.
“I know exactly where the limit is
and I know when it’s been crossed.”
I didn’t just leave. I left like a woman who finally remembered her worth and had the receipts to prove it.
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