My Wife’s Mysterious Nights—And the Secret That Changed Everything

It was a rainy evening — the kind where thunder rolls like a warning and raindrops drum against the windows. She came home late, soaked from the storm, and as she took off her shoes, I noticed something strange.

Her socks were black. That in itself wasn’t odd, but they were clearly larger than her size — maybe a man’s pair.

“Those look new,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She smiled faintly. “It’s cold in the hospital,” she said. “I just grabbed some from a store across the street. They didn’t have any women’s sizes.”

It was a perfectly reasonable answer. Still, something inside me ached.

That night, as the rain continued outside, I reached for her, seeking the comfort that had always been there between us. But she gently pushed my hand away. “I’m just too tired tonight,” she murmured.

I turned over, pretending to sleep, though my mind refused to rest. The image of the black socks lingered, whispering doubts I didn’t want to hear.

Then — ting! — my phone buzzed.

I turned slightly and saw her sit up, reaching for her own phone. The glow of the screen reflected in her eyes as she read a message. For a brief moment, I caught a few words:

“Come downstairs.”

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