For three years, I believed my marriage to Tom was built on trust — until one weekend shattered that illusion.

Returning home early, I found him in the basement, frantically scrubbing a dark stain with bleach. Startled,

he claimed he’d spilled red wine, but his shaky tone and the harsh smell of chemicals made me uneasy.

After he left for work, curiosity and dread pulled me back downstairs. The stain was still faintly visible, and inside a trash bag, I discovered

wine-stained clothes — Tom’s shirt and a woman’s white dress. My neighbor later mentioned seeing Tom with a young woman while I was away.

When I confronted him, he said her name was Claire, a colleague helping him prepare for a promotion. The spill had ruined her dress,

so she borrowed one of mine. His story sounded rehearsed, but to be sure, I demanded to meet her.

At dinner the next evening, Claire confirmed everything and even spoke kindly about me — yet the damage was done.

That night, I told Tom the truth: trust, once cracked, never feels whole again. He swore it would never

happen again, but deep down, I knew — some doubts never truly fade.