I always believed my marriage was solid as a rock. Twenty years together, weathering storms, celebrating victories, building a life — Harold and I were a team. At least, that's what I thought.

But lately? Something felt…off.

It started small. Harold had always loved his garage, his little kingdom of grease and solitude. After work, he'd disappear in there for hours, tinkering with his motorcycle, fixing God knows what. "Sara," he'd say with a casual grin, wiping his hands on an old rag, "it helps me clear my mind."

I never questioned it. Until I had to.

Because lately, Harold wasn't just tinkering. He was hiding.

He was distant. Distracted. Even when he was physically present, his mind was somewhere else. And then there was the biggest red flag of all.

He started locking the garage.

Every. Single. Night.

"Since when do you lock the garage?" I asked casually one evening as he turned the key.

He didn't even glance at me. "Just don't want anyone messing with my tools."

"Who would? It's just us here."

"Teenagers," he said, too quickly. "You never know."

It was a flimsy excuse. And I knew it.

So one afternoon, when Harold was at work, I finally caved.

I went into his office, pulled open the second drawer, and found the spare key exactly where he always kept it. My hands were shaking as I gripped the metal, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

I hesitated at the garage door, swallowing hard. Do I really want to do this?

The answer came when I turned the key and stepped inside.

And that's when my stomach dropped.

The workbench, and the floor — all covered in photos. Dozens of them.

The same woman. Over and over again. Young and beautiful.

I bent down and picked one up with trembling fingers. My breath caught in my throat.

"Oh my God."

Who was she? And why was my husband obsessed with her?

I could have confronted him right then and there when I found those photos. I could have screamed, cried, and demanded answers. But something in me hesitated. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was denial. Maybe I just wasn't ready to hear the truth.

So instead, I watched.

That night, Harold came home as usual. He kissed my forehead, asked about my day, and ate dinner with me like everything was normal. Like there weren't dozens of pictures of another woman hidden away in his garage.

And then — just like every other night — he disappeared into the garage.

"Long night?" I asked casually, watching him grab his keys.

"You know me," he chuckled. "Just need to clear my mind."

I forced a smile.

"Right. Clear your mind."

After he was gone, I waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. My heart pounded as I crept outside, the cold night air sending shivers down my spine.

The garage light was on, casting long shadows through the dusty window. I held my breath and peered inside. And what I saw made my stomach drop.

Harold stood at his workbench, holding one of the largest photos. He wasn't just looking at it — he was studying it, his fingers tracing the woman's face.

Then, from his pocket, he pulled out something small and shiny.

"Oh my God… is that an engagement ring?"

A sharp pain stabbed my chest. My mind went wild. Is he leaving me? Is this why he's been distant? Is he in love with her?

Then — he pulled something else from a wooden box.

A tiny fabric body. A doll.

I squinted in confusion.

"What the hell…?" I whispered.

I couldn't take it anymore. I slammed my fist against the window.

Harold’s head snapped up, his face draining of color. "Sara? What are you doing out there?"

I stormed to the garage door and yanked it open, my emotions spiraling.

"No, Harold—what the hell are YOU doing?!" My voice shook. I grabbed the nearest photo, shoving it in his face. "Who is she?!"

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Tell me the truth, Harold!" I shouted.

His shoulders slumped. His expression softened, something unreadable flickering across his face.

And what he said next?

Broke me.

"Sara…" he said, his voice low. "Her name is Madison. She was my colleague. She died in a car crash two months ago."

I blinked. The name didn't register at first, but then something clicked. He mentioned the accident — a tragic collision on the freeway. A young woman gone too soon. But I had never known her name.