When my husband told me he was going to an old friend’s funeral, I believed him without a doubt. Twenty-one years of marriage teaches you to trust… or at least, that’s what I thought.
But that same day, a visit to our quiet little country house turned into the kind of nightmare I wish I could erase from my memory. I found Jordan standing behind our shed, holding a gasoline can, his face pale and distant. And what he was trying to burn… I wish I had never seen it.
My name is Alice. I’m 46 years old. And last Saturday ripped my life apart in a way I never saw coming.
Jordan and I met when I was 25, in a small, warm bookstore downtown. He was in the cooking section, scanning recipe books. I walked past, carrying my own stack of cookbooks—and dropped them all over the floor.
“Let me help you with those,” he said, kneeling down beside me.
That same afternoon, we went for coffee. He made me laugh so hard my sides ached. We talked for three hours straight, like we’d known each other for years.
A year later, we were married in a small church. My mother cried tears of joy. His father stood up at the reception and gave a toast so beautiful, I still remember every word. Back then, everything felt perfect.
We built a life together. Two amazing kids—Amy, who now lives in Oregon, and Michael, who moved to Texas with his girlfriend last year. We still have our golden retriever, Buddy, who greets us at the door like we’re the best part of his day. We have Sunday cookouts, Christmas mornings that feel magical, and a quiet, steady love. Not a whirlwind movie romance, but something solid. Safe.
Or so I thought.
A few weeks ago, Jordan came home looking tired and distracted.
“I need to drive upstate this weekend,” he said quietly.
“What for?” I asked, setting my coffee down.
“Eddie’s funeral. Remember me mentioning him from high school?”
I frowned. “I don’t think you ever talked about an Eddie.”
“We only stayed in touch online,” Jordan explained, shifting in his chair. “Childhood friend. Cancer got him.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. Should I come with you?”
“No.” The word shot out of his mouth too quickly. “You didn’t know him. It’d be awkward. I’d rather process this alone.”
Something in his voice felt… off. But I told myself it was grief.
“When will you be back?” I asked.
“Sunday evening. Just packing a few things and taking my car.”
That Saturday morning was gray and drizzly. Jordan kissed my cheek before leaving. His suitcase looked barely packed.
“Drive safely,” I called.
“Sure,” he said, already pulling away.
The house felt unnervingly quiet without him. By afternoon, I decided to drive to our country place. We’d bought it five years ago for weekend escapes. I figured I could tend the garden and maybe bring home some fresh tomatoes for Jordan’s return.
The drive took 45 peaceful minutes—until I pulled into the gravel driveway… and froze.
Jordan’s car was there. Parked by the tool shed.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel. “What the hell?” I whispered.
I got out, calling, “Jordan?” But the house was empty. No keys on the counter. No sign of him.
I circled to the back—and that’s when I saw him.
Jordan stood behind the shed, pouring gasoline on a pile of something. The chemical smell hit me instantly.
“JORDAN?? What the hell are you doing?”
He jumped, dropping the can. “ALICE?? Oh my God! You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you! You’re supposed to be at a funeral!”
He stepped sideways, blocking my view. “It’s nothing. Just… weeds. Lots of ticks out here. Don’t come closer, fire hazard.” His voice was shaking.
But then he pulled a matchbox from his pocket.
“Don’t!” I shouted.
Too late. The match flared, and he dropped it.
A violent whoosh of heat and orange flames shot up, the fire licking the air.
“Are you insane?” I screamed.
“Stay back! It’s dangerous!” he shouted, grabbing my arm.
I shoved him away and ran forward. The flames were dying fast… and that’s when I saw what he was burning.
Photographs. Dozens—no, hundreds—of them.
In the images, Jordan was smiling beside a dark-haired woman in a wedding dress, holding a baby boy with his same gray eyes. Other photos showed birthdays, Christmas mornings, beach trips—Jordan laughing, hugging, playing with the same woman and child.
My stomach dropped. My chest tightened painfully.
I knelt, frantically beating out the last flames with my jacket. The heat burned my hands. I didn’t care.
When the last ember went out, I looked at Jordan.
“There was no funeral,” I said flatly.
“Alice…”
“There was no Eddie.”
He swallowed hard. “Please. Let me explain.”
“How long?”
His shoulders sagged. “Nine years. Her name was Camille.”
“Was?”
“She died two weeks ago. Car accident. Drunk truck driver. Killed her and Tommy… our son. He was eight.”
I stared, my brain refusing to connect the words.
“You had another wife.”
“Not married. But yes… another life.”
“And you hid them from me for nine years?”
“I never meant for it to happen. She got pregnant. I visited once a month. Told you I was visiting my brother.”
“Your brother lives in California.”
“I know. I lied about everything.”
I thought of every unexplained trip, every “business conference,” every late night. All of it—a lie.
“Did you love her?” I asked.
His voice cracked. “Yes. I loved her. And I love you too. I know it sounds impossible.”
“It sounds sick.”
“I kept both lives separate. You never suspected because I was careful.”
“Careful? Is that what you call destroying two families?”
His voice broke. “I destroyed one. They’re gone.”
“So you came here to burn the evidence?”
“I couldn’t keep the pictures. It was too painful.”
“You could’ve told me the truth.”
“And lose you? Our kids?”
“You already lost everything, Jordan.”
We drove home in silence, in separate cars. My hands shook the whole way.
At home, he paced like a trapped animal.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you leaving me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I still love you, Alice. More than anything. I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“You’re right. You don’t.”
“But I need you. I can’t lose you too. Not after losing them.”
His words made me feel sick—like I was a backup plan now that his “other” family was gone.
“Don’t talk about them right now,” I said sharply.
“I have to grieve them. They were my life for nine years.”
“Then where do we stand?”
“I want to fix this.”
“I don’t think you can.”
“I’ll give you space. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
“Good.”
At the door, he turned back. “Alice? I know sorry isn’t enough. But I am sorry. I’m guilty… more than you’ll ever know.”
I watched him disappear into the house. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like my home anymore.
I don’t know what I’ll do. Some days, I want to forgive him. Other days, I want to burn it all to the ground.
Maybe love can survive a betrayal this deep. Maybe it can’t.
Right now, I’m still deciding whether I’ll be the woman who stays… or the one who finally walks away after 21 years of being someone’s second choice.