I always trusted my husband with that basement. It was his “man cave,” his workshop, and his space. I never had a reason to question what went on down there…
until I heard a woman laugh when he was supposed to be out buying milk.
That night changed everything, and by the time I was done, he and his mistress had far more than each other to worry about. If you’d asked me a month ago, I would’ve told you our marriage was fine. Not perfect, but stable.
Evan and I had been together for over a decade and we had our routines. He had his man cave, the basement he turned into a workshop-slash-gym years ago, and I had the rest of the house. That space downstairs was sacred to him and I respected that.
However, I should’ve paid more attention. At first, it was little things. A whiff of perfume that wasn’t mine on his shirt.
The way he suddenly started showering before his workouts instead of after. The late-night “grocery runs” for snacks we didn’t even eat. I told myself I was overthinking but that tiny voice in the back of my mind wouldn’t quiet down.
Still, one evening, I asked, “You’ve been spending a lot of time in the basement lately… everything okay?”
Evan didn’t even look up from his phone. “Yeah. Just exercising more.
It helps clear my head — keeps the stress down.”
I nodded, letting it go. Mental health mattered, and he’d struggled before, so I wanted to believe him. Turns out, it wasn’t the treadmill that was helping him cope, it was someone else.
I discovered this one evening. As the sun hit the house just right, I caught a glimpse of movement through the basement window as I passed the side yard. Just a flicker.
A shadow that shouldn’t have been there. My stomach dropped. Deep down, I knew I was about to uncover the truth behind the feeling that had been gnawing at me for weeks.
I waited until Evan left, another late run for almond milk at 9:30 p.m., then grabbed a flashlight and crept downstairs. I didn’t even reach the bottom step when I heard it. A woman’s laugh, soft, and happy.
She sounded familiar with the space, like she belonged. Then a voice said, “Are you sure your wife never comes down here?”
I froze, the flashlight trembling in my hand. I backed away slowly, afraid even the sound of my breath might give me away.
I couldn’t make out the reply as she was probably talking to my husband on the phone. Then her voice rang out again, clear and smug: “You’re right, she is dumb. She should’ve figured it out by now, but she just goes on with her little routine, clueless while we have our fun down here.”
I could feel the panic twisting into anger, but I didn’t scream.
I didn’t storm down there or call a friend in tears. I walked back upstairs, stood in the kitchen, and stared at the basement door for a long, long time. Then I poured myself a glass of wine and I made a plan.
The next morning, Evan kissed my cheek like nothing had changed and left for work. I took the day off, drove 45 minutes out of town to a small, dusty pet shop I’d read about online, one that specialized in “unusual pets.”
I walked out with a large cage containing twenty feeder rats. Harmless, according to the clerk.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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