Three Days Away From Home
My name is Daniel Carter, thirty-two years old, a project manager at a media company in New York. My wife, Emily Carter, is three years younger than me and works as a preschool teacher. We had been married for nearly two years, living in a small house in suburban New Jersey, where maple trees lined the streets and soft sunlight filled the mornings.
Two years of marriage wasn’t very long, but it was enough for me to believe I understood Emily better than anyone else. She was gentle, quiet, and loved reading books and taking care of the little plants on our front porch. We had promised each other that this year we would try to have a child. I still remembered those evenings when we sat on the couch watching movies, discussing which room would become the baby’s room, even debating whether we should name our future child Oliver or Sophia.
Before that fateful business trip, our life had been so peaceful that I sometimes felt like the luckiest man alive.
Three days before everything changed, I had to fly to Chicago for work. Before leaving, I told Emily:
“Why don’t you stay at your parents’ place for a few days? I don’t want you to feel lonely here alone.”
Emily shook her head and smiled softly.
“I’ll be fine, Daniel. I’m used to being at home. Don’t worry about me.”
I looked at her for a long moment, feeling a vague sense of unease, but I brushed it aside. Emily had always been independent, and I didn’t want to make a big deal out of nothing.
The three days passed quickly in a blur of meetings. Every evening I video-called her. She smiled as usual, telling me stories about her students and the neighbor’s cat that kept wandering into our yard. Nothing seemed unusual.
On the third day, I returned home around eight in the evening. The early autumn air felt cool. As soon as I stepped through the door, exhaustion from the long flight hit me. Emily ran up and hugged me, her familiar perfume making me feel instantly at ease.
“You’re back! Go take a shower — dinner’s almost ready,” she said.
I nodded, dragged my suitcase into the bedroom, and went straight into the bathroom. The warm water running over my shoulders washed away some of the tension. I closed my eyes, enjoying a rare moment of quiet.
After finishing my shower, I realized I had forgotten to bring clean clothes inside. I called out:
“Emily, can you grab me some clean clothes?”
The bathroom door opened slightly, and she reached her hand in. I took what she handed me — and suddenly everything froze.
In her hand was a pair of dark gray men’s underwear. The moment I touched it, I knew… it wasn’t mine.
I stood there, stunned, my heart pounding.
“Emily… whose is this?” My voice came out hoarse.
“Yours, of course,” she replied casually.
I stepped out of the bathroom, water still dripping from my hair. I examined the underwear closely — different style, larger size, even a brand I had never bought before.
Anger surged through me like fire.
I threw it onto the floor.
“Whose is this?” I demanded again.
Emily flinched, her face turning pale.
“I… I thought it was yours…”
I shook my head and let out a cold laugh. I had always bought and washed my own underwear to make things easier for her. I knew every single item I owned.
“It’s not mine,” I said through clenched teeth.
The air in the bedroom became heavy and suffocating.
I looked at Emily, feeling both pain and fury. During the three days I was away… what had happened here?
“You should tell me the truth,” I said slowly. “Before I lose control of my anger.”
Emily trembled, tears streaming down her face. She sat on the edge of the bed, covering her face with both hands.
“I… I’m sorry…”
Those two words alone were enough to make my heart sink.
Her voice broke as she began to tell me everything.
On the day I left for my business trip, she went out for dinner with some friends. It started as a simple gathering, but they ended up going to a bar. Emily rarely drank, but that night she had too much.
“I remember getting drunk… and after that… I don’t remember anything…” she sobbed. “When I woke up, there was a strange man in the house… I was terrified… I didn’t understand what had happened…”
She said the man had taken her home while she was drunk. And… they had crossed a line.
My head spun as I listened.
“After he left… I cleaned up the house… found that underwear under the bed… thought it was yours and put it in the drawer…” Emily cried uncontrollably.
The room fell into a terrifying silence.
I stood there, feeling everything I believed in collapse. I had always thought Emily was gentle and faithful. I had loved her wholeheartedly, willing to do anything to make her happy.
And yet, in just three days…
I turned away, unable to look at her. Memories flooded my mind — morning coffees together, silly arguments followed by laughter, our plans for a child.
Everything suddenly felt fragile.
Emily fell to her knees in front of me.
“Daniel… I know I was wrong… please… don’t leave me…”
I closed my eyes. Part of me wanted to hold her like before, but another part was filled with hurt and doubt.
That night, I slept on the couch.
The days that followed were heavy and tense. We barely spoke. Emily tried to take care of me as usual, but an invisible wall stood between us.
I didn’t want a divorce — at least not yet. But I also couldn’t pretend nothing had happened.
A week later, I suggested we see a marriage counselor together. Emily agreed immediately, as if clinging to a final chance.
During therapy, I began to understand how lonely she had felt while I was constantly busy with work. That didn’t excuse her mistake — but it helped me see the cracks that had existed in our marriage.
As for me, I had to face the truth that love alone wasn’t always enough to sustain a relationship without communication and real presence.
We slowly started talking again — not like before, but through deep, honest conversations. Sometimes I lost my temper. Sometimes Emily cried until she was exhausted. But at least we were no longer silent.
Three months passed.
Trust didn’t return overnight. I still had sleepless nights. I still felt a sharp pain whenever I looked at her. But there were also moments when I saw how hard she was trying — opening up about her feelings, cutting off anything that made me feel insecure.
One afternoon, while we were sitting on the front porch, Emily said softly:
“I don’t expect you to forget… I just hope one day you can look at me without feeling pain.”
I stayed silent for a long time before answering:
“I don’t know what the future will be… but I’m trying.”
Our marriage was no longer perfect like before. But maybe those cracks forced us to look at ourselves and learn how to love each other in a more mature way.
Even now, I don’t have a clear answer about whether I will fully forgive her. But I know one thing — divorce isn’t the only option, and forgiveness isn’t something that happens overnight.
Sometimes marriage isn’t about two people who never make mistakes — it’s about whether they have the courage to face those mistakes together.
And me… I’m still on that journey, searching for my own answer.
