After I cheated, my husband never touched me again. For 18 years, we were strangers sharing a house. It wasn’t until a routine physical after I retired that a doctor said something that made my world collapse on the spot. Dr. Evans, how do my results look? I sat in the sterile quiet of the clinic’s office, my fingers unconsciously twisting the strap of my purse.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting neat stripes across the white walls. Dr. Evans was in her 50s, a kind-l lookinging woman with gold rimmed glasses. At that moment, she was staring at her computer screen, her brow furrowed. She glanced up at me, then back down, clicking through my electronic chart. Mrs.

Miller, you’re 58 this year. Is that correct? Her voice was soft, but it set my teeth on edge. Yes, I just retired. I tried to keep my own voice steady. Is something wrong? Did you find anything? Dr. Evans paused for a few seconds, then looked at me with a complicated expression. Susan, I need to ask you a rather personal question.

Have you and your husband maintained a normal, intimate life over the years? My face flushed hot. The question was a needle, finding the most secret and painful wound of the last 18 years. It was absurd, really. Michael and I had been married for 30 years, but we had been strangers for 18 of them. It was the summer of 2008.

I was 40 and so was he. Our son Jake had just left for college. Suddenly, the house was empty. Not a physical emptiness, but a psychological one. Michael and I were college sweethearts. We married right after graduation, falling into a comfortable life. He was an engineer at a large manufacturing firm, and I taught English at the local high school.

Our life was stable and quiet, like a glass of lukewarm water, no waves, but no passion either. Then when I was 40, I met Ethan. He was the new art teacher at the high school, 5 years younger than me, with fine lines that crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. He kept a vase of fresh flowers on his desk, hummed tunes I didn’t recognize while grading papers, and would offer his umbrella to anyone caught in the rain.

He reminded me of the girl I used to be 20 years earlier, the one who would cry over a poem and daydream under the moonlight. Susan, what do you think of this one? One afternoon, Ethan walked into my classroom holding a watercolor painting of a hillside covered in wild flowers. It’s beautiful, I said, and I meant it. Then it’s yours. He handed it to me.

I think you’re like the wild flowers in this painting. Quiet, but with a life force all your own. That was the sentence that unlocked a door in my heart I had long since bolted shut. We started talking more in the faculty lounge, strolling through the small school garden, grabbing coffee at a nearby cafe.

I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself. The feeling of being truly seen, of being admired, was like rain on parched earth. “Michael sensed something was off. “You’re working late a lot recently,” he said one evening from his usual spot on the couch. “Just a lot to do at school,” I said, avoiding his gaze as I hurried into the bedroom.

He didn’t press, just sat there in the silent glow of the television. That silence made me feel guilty, but it also made me bolder. The whole thing blew up on a weekend. I’d told Michael I had a faculty workshop, but I had actually arranged to go sketching with Ethan in the countryside. We spent the entire afternoon by a lake talking about poetry, art, and life.

As dusk fell, Ethan suddenly took my hand. Susan, I his words were cut short by a voice. Mom. I whipped my head around. Jake was standing a short distance away, his face pale with fury, and next to him stood Michael. My husband’s face was a blank mask, but his eyes were fixed on me. My mind went white.

 

 

 

 

It turned out Jake had come home from college for the weekend to surprise me. When I didn’t answer my phone, he’d asked Michael to drive him around to my usual spots to find me. They found me here by the lake with Ethan. Home was all Michael said before turning and walking back to the car. The ride back was terrifyingly silent.

Jake sat in the back radiating disappointment and anger. It felt like a knife twisting in my heart. When we got home, Michael sent Jake to his room. Then he sat on the living room sofa, lit a cigarette, and looked at me. “How long?” His voice was calm, which scared me more than yelling would have. “I’m sorry.

” I knelt in front of him, tears streaming down my face. I was wrong. I was so wrong. I asked you how long, he repeated. 3 months, I sobbed. But nothing happened. I swear we just talked. Enough. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. Susan, I’m giving you two choices. One, we divorce. You walk away with nothing. Two, we stay married.

But from this day forward, we are roommates, not husband and wife. I stared at him, stunned. Jake has his whole life ahead of him. I don’t want this to affect him,” he continued, his tone as cold and detached, as if he werediscussing a business deal. “And a divorce wouldn’t look good for your job either. So, I’m giving you this choice.

If you don’t agree, we’ll get a divorce.” “I I agree.” I heard myself whisper, my voice trembling. Then it settled. He walked into our bedroom, gathered his pillow and a comforter, and threw them onto the living room sofa. From now on, I sleep out here. Your life is your own, but in front of our son and in front of everyone else, you will act like a normal wife.

That night, I lay alone in our king-sized bed, listening to him tossing and turning on the couch. I had expected him to scream, to hit me, to demand answers. But he did none of those things. He simply shut me out of his world. For the first time, I understood that some punishments were far cruer than divorce. The next day, Michael went to work as if nothing had happened.

I called in sick, unable to face Ethan. I sent him a single text. I’m sorry. We can’t see each other again. He replied with one word. Okay. And just like that, my affair with Ethan was over, but my marriage to Michael was too. In the years that followed, we maintained a strange cold peace. He would make coffee in the morning, but wouldn’t speak to me.

He’d come home from work on time, but would disappear into his study until I was asleep before coming out to the couch. When Jake came home for Christmas break, I asked him what he wanted for dinner, trying to sound cheerful. He just looked at me and said, “Whatever.” before shutting himself in his room.

That Christmas, the atmosphere was arctic. During dinner, the three of us sat in silence, the only sound coming from the holiday movie playing on TV. Jake, have some more turkey,” I said, trying to put some on his plate. He pulled his plate away, head down. “Dad, how are things at the firm?” he asked, pointedly, ignoring me. “Fine,” Michael answered curtly.

“Good,” Jake put his fork down. “I’m full. Going to my room.” “Watching my son walk away.” The tears started again. “Stop crying,” Michael said flatly. “Save your energy. We have to go to your mother’s tomorrow.” I wiped my eyes. A chilling realization dawning on me. This was my life now.

Playing happy families for the world, living as strangers at home. Time passed, freezing our relationship in place. In 2011, Jake graduated with his masters, and took a job in Chicago. The house, now empty of our son, felt even colder. I tried to mend things. I learned to cook his favorite meals, bought him thoughtful birthday gifts, and waited up for him with a snack when he worked late.

But he remained a wall of indifference. My efforts bouncing off him. You don’t have to do this, he said coldly one night. We’re just acting. You understand that, right? But I want to make it up to you. I choked out. Some things can’t be fixed. He cut me off. Susan, I gave you a respectable way out. Just live your life and don’t make me regret my decision.

In that moment, I finally understood. He did not hate me. He had just buried the hate so deep it had turned to ice. In 2013, Jake married a lovely, kind girl named Sarah. At the wedding, Michael and I stood side by side, smiling and giving toasts. “Your parents have such a wonderful marriage,” a guest commented.

Michael put his arm around my shoulder, his smile perfectly natural. I could feel his hand as stiff and cold as a rock against my back. Later, back in the hotel room, he dropped his arm the second the door closed. “That was exhausting, wasn’t it?” he said with a sneer. “Yes, it was,” I replied, sinking onto the edge of the bed, feeling the absurdity of it all.

“Michael, how much longer do we have to keep this up?” “Until we can’t anymore,” he said, taking off his suit jacket and lying down on the sofa. “I’m used to it.” Those two words, used to it, were like a dagger in my heart. In 2015, our grandson Noah was born. Michael gave him his name. With a grandchild, we found a few new topics of conversation.

We’d discuss Noah’s milestones, pick out toys for him, and laugh together during video calls. Noah say, “Grandma, I’d coo at the phone screen. That kid looks just like Jake did.” Michael remarked from beside me one day. It was the first unsolicited personal comment he’d made to me in years. Really? I asked, testing the waters.

Was Jake this smiley as a baby? Yeah, he nodded, then said no more. Still, that brief exchange gave me a sliver of hope. Maybe time really could heal. Maybe we had a chance. I was wrong. During Thanksgiving that year, Jake’s family came to visit. For once, the mood was warm. Mom, Dad, are you two doing okay? Healthwise, Sarah asked with genuine concern. We’re great, I smiled.

That’s good, Sarah said, looking between us. Honestly, I’ve always admired you two. Married so long and still so in love. Before I could respond, Jake slammed his fork down. Mom, stop acting, he said, his voice cold. Sarah doesn’t know, but I do. You two haven’t been husband and wife for years. You’re just putting on a show for everyone. The airwent still.

Jake, Michael said in a low warning tone. Dad, you stop, too. Jake stood up. I’m 28 years old, not a child. Do you have any idea how suffocating it’s been watching you two live like this? Do you think I couldn’t see it? Sarah was horrified, tugging at his sleeve. What are you talking about, Sarah? I’m sorry, Jake said, turning to his wife.

I’ve been hiding this from you. My parents marriage is a sham. They’ve stayed together for appearances. Jake. I stood up, tears welling. Mom, don’t cry. His voice softened. I know you regret it. I know you’ve been trying to make up for it all these years. But what about dad? Has he been happy? Have you ever thought about that? I was speechless.

What’s the point of going on like this? Jake asked, looking from me to Michael. It would be better to just get a divorce and start over. Dad’s only 47. You’re only 47. You both still have a lot of life to live. That’s enough, Michael said, rising from his chair. Eat your dinner. That Thanksgiving meal ended in silence.

Jake’s words planted a seed in my mind. He was right. What were we doing besides torturing each other, but I was too afraid to ask for a divorce. I was terrified of losing what little I had left of my family, of Michael, even if all he gave me was coldness. In 2017, I turned 50. The school threw a small party for me. Susan, how come your husband isn’t here? One of the younger teachers asked.

He’s stuck at work. I lied with a smile, my heart aching. The truth was, Michael had no idea it was my birthday. He hadn’t acknowledged my birthday in years. When I got home that night, there was a plate on the kitchen table with two pancakes still warm. Eat, Michael said, emerging from the kitchen for your birthday.

I stared at the plate. My favorite buttermilk with blueberries. Tears started falling. You You remembered? I just remember the date, he said flatly. Don’t read too much into it, but I couldn’t help it. This was the first thing he had made for me in a decade. Michael, I sobbed. Is there Is there any chance for us? He was silent for a long time.

So long, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Susan, some things are in the past for a reason. He turned and walked toward his study. They’ll get cold if you wait. I sat at the table and ate every last bite of those pancakes. They were salty, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the batter or my tears. Our 30th wedding anniversary was in 2018. Jake insisted on celebrating.

30 years is the Pearl anniversary. Mom, it’s a big deal. He booked a nice restaurant. At dinner, Sarah held Noah while Jake raised a glass. To mom and dad, thank you for everything you’ve done these past 30 years. May you always be this happy together. Michael and I clinkedked glasses and drank. Jake, the truth is your mother and I.

Michael started to say, “Dad, I know.” Jake interrupted. But no matter what’s happened between you two, in my heart, you are the most important people in my life. Michael didn’t say another word, just quietly drank his wine. That night, back home, we lay in our separate spaces. Me in the bedroom, him on the couch, the door between us, a physical manifestation of the wall between our worlds.

Michael, I called out into the darkness. Yeah. His voice came from the living room. 30 years, I said, my voice thin. Have you Have you hated me for 30 years? The silence stretched on. I don’t hate you, he finally said. I’m just tired. Tired? The word was more heartbreaking than hate. I’m sorry, I whispered, tears rolling down my temples.

Don’t say sorry. His voice was loud now. It’s all in the past. But was it really? The pandemic hit in 2020. Michael and I were both retired, stuck at home together. We saw more of each other in those months than we had in the previous decade. We cooked together, watched the news, followed the case numbers.

For a moment, it almost felt like we were a real couple again. Wear your mask, he’d say before he went to the grocery store. I’d watch him leave from the doorway. That small everyday concern making my heart ache with a fragile hope. Maybe we could start again. I was wrong. One night, I made a special dinner and opened a bottle of wine.

“What’s the occasion?” Michael asked, sitting down. “No reason. Just felt like having a nice meal with you,” I said, pouring him a glass. He glanced at me, then took a sip. “Michael,” I took a deep breath. “Can we Can we try again for real this time?” he put his glass down and looked at me. A bitter smile touched his lips. “Try again, Susan.

Do you think this is a game that you can just hit reset? I know I was wrong. You were wrong. He cut me off. Do you have any idea what these last 18 years have been like for me? Lying on that couch every night, hearing you breathe in the next room and wondering why I was torturing myself like this. Then why didn’t you divorce me? I cried.

Because I didn’t want to hurt Jake. Because I didn’t want to be the subject of town gossip. Because I didn’t want you to be humiliated at yourjob. His eyes were red. But you, did you ever once think about how I felt? Did you ever think about what it did to my heart seeing you with that man? I’m sorry.

 

 

 

 

I’m so sorry was all I could say over and over. Stop saying sorry, he stood up. Let’s just keep things the way they are. It’s fine. That night, I threw out the entire meal along with my last shred of hope. By 2024, Noah was nine. Jake and his family visited several times a year. The boy’s energy breathing life into our quiet house.

Grandma, what were you and Grandpa like when you were young? Noah asked one day, climbing onto my lap. When we were young, I stroked his hair. Oh, Grandpa was very handsome and Grandma was very pretty. How did you meet? In college? I smiled. Grandpa chased after Grandma for a very long time.

Does Grandpa still like Grandma now? The question caught me off guard. “Of course he does,” I said with a strained smile. “But I don’t think Grandpa likes Grandma very much,” Noah said, tilting his head. “He never holds your hand, and you don’t sleep together,” “Noah,” Sarah said, walking over. “Don’t say things like that.” “I’m not lying,” my teacher said.

“People who love each other hold hands and hug.” “All right, time to do your homework,” Jake said, pulling his son away. I sat on the couch, my heart a hollow space. Even a 9-year-old could see our marriage wasn’t normal. In 2025, I turned 58. My old school district organized a health screening for retired teachers.

I went for a full workup, blood tests, x-rays, and ultrasound. You’re in great shape, Mrs. Miller. The nurse smiled. A little anemic, maybe. Eat some more spinach. I took my results to the gynecologist, Dr. Evans. She looked at my chart, her brow furrowed. “Susan, I need to ask you a rather personal question,” she said, looking up.

“Have you and your husband maintained a normal, intimate life over the years?” The question made my face burn. “Does does that have to do with my checkup?” “It does,” Dr. Evans pointed to the screen. “Based on your results, I’m seeing some abnormal indicators. If you’re comfortable, could you tell me more?” I hesitated, then told her the truth.

My husband and I, we haven’t been intimate in 18 years. Dr. Evans looked surprised, then sighed. 18 years? She took off her glasses. Susan, do you have any idea the physical impact that can have? I I don’t. A long-term lack of intimacy can lead to hormonal imbalances, a weakened immune system, and even increase the risk for certain diseases, Dr. Evans explained gently.

And from a psychological standpoint, it takes a significant toll on your mental health. I looked down at my hands, ashamed. Susan, may I ask why? Her tone was kind. Is it an issue with your husband or it’s my fault? I interrupted. I wronged him. Dr. Evans looked at me with pity. I see. She typed a few notes.

Susan, I need to do a more detailed examination. Do you have time today? Yes. Then come with me. I followed her into an exam room and lay down on the cold table. She moved an instrument over my abdomen, her eyes fixed on a monitor. Suddenly, she stopped. “Susan,” her voice trembled slightly. “Have you ever had any gynecological surgery in the past?” “No, never,” I said, my heart starting to pound. “Why?” Dr.

Evans didn’t answer, just continued the exam. After what felt like an eternity, she put the instrument down. “You can get dressed. Let’s talk back in my office. Once I was seated, she handed me a cup of water. “Susan, I have to tell you something,” she said, taking a deep breath. “The exam shows evidence that you’ve had surgery on your uterus.

” “That’s impossible,” I exclaimed. “I’ve never had surgery, but the results are very clear.” Dr. Evans pulled up the images. “You see this here? This is distinct scar tissue.” “And she paused, her expression growing even more serious.” and what? My throat was tight and based on the location and formation of the scarring, this surgery was likely performed many, many years ago.