Every night it was the same. “You were loud again. I need proper rest.” He said it kindly, like he was protecting his health—and maybe sparing my feelings.
I felt ashamed. Embarrassed. Was I really that bad? I bought nose strips, herbal sprays, new pillows. I even slept propped up on extra cushions. Nothing changed—according to him.
Eventually, I went to a specialist without telling him. She suggested recording myself overnight to monitor the snoring.
So I did.
I found an old voice recorder and placed it on my bedside table. Before turning off the lamp, I whispered, “Let’s see the truth.”
The next morning, I hit play.
The first hour was silence—just faint house noises. No snoring. I fast-forwarded. Still nothing.
Then, at exactly 2:17 a.m., I heard footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Careful. The creak of the guest room door opening. A chair scraping lightly against the floor. Then typing.
I sat frozen.
He wasn’t avoiding my snoring. He was awake. Working—or doing something—long after he claimed to be asleep.
That day I watched him closely. He looked tired, yes. But not sleep-deprived. More… strained.
I told myself there had to be a simple explanation. Insomnia. Deadlines. But then why lie? Why lock the door?
That night I set an alarm for 2 a.m.
When it buzzed, I slipped out of bed quietly. The hallway was cold beneath my feet. Light spilled from under the guest room door again. I leaned close. Typing. Steady and deliberate.
The handle didn’t turn. Locked.
Then I remembered something. When we first moved into the house, I’d made copies of every key. I kept them hidden in a tin behind the cookbooks.
My hands shook as I retrieved it.
Standing outside that door, key in my palm, I hesitated. What if I was wrong? What if this destroyed something that could still be fixed?
But the secrecy had already damaged us.
I slid the key into the lock.
It turned smoothly.
I opened the door just enough to see inside.
