My husband Mark has been taking long “business trips” once a month for the last three years.
I never questioned it. He works in tech, always busy, always stressed. The trips seemed to drain him, but he always came back with little souvenirs for me and our son—local chocolates, hotel shampoos, silly magnets.
Last month, he forgot his passport at home. He called me in a panic, asked if I could meet him at the train station with it. I rushed over, but I was five minutes too late.
His train had already left.
Or so I thought.
As I turned to leave, I saw him.
Not boarding a train.
But standing just across the street—with a woman and a little boy.
She was laughing, holding his hand.
And the boy… the boy looked exactly like our son did at that age.
Same dimples. Same curls.
I froze.
I watched them walk together down the street like a perfect little family.
My Mark. Their Mark.
Three years of lies. Of living two lives. Of building two homes.
I haven’t told him I know yet.
But I took a photo.
And I’ve booked a “business trip” of my own.
