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The Model Husband's Secret Obsession
NovelShort
Hoàn thành
In our social circle, Harrison Gilbert was the gold standard—a model husband. Considerate, attentive, never raised his voice. For eight years, I believed I was living in a cocoon of perfect domestic...
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第1章
In our social circle, Harrison Gilbert was the gold standard—a model husband. Considerate, attentive, never raised his voice. For eight years, I believed I was living in a cocoon of perfect domestic bliss.
Until I found the yearbook.
It was tucked in the back of the wardrobe, a yellowed relic from his college days. Inside, a generic message from my best friend, Vera Fox. But on the pages that followed, Harrison had poured out a secret that stopped my heart.
"Eight years of agony. Waiting. Suffering. For the rest of my life, I only want you."
The realization hit like a physical blow. The happiness I'd wrapped myself in for nearly a decade—a mirage. I was a placeholder. Even my son, the one I'd nearly died giving birth to, had pledged his loyalty to my best friend, calling himself her "little hero."
When I finally packed my bags, heart shattered, neither husband nor son chased after me. They just looked at me with varying degrees of impatience.
"Sara, when you're done being dramatic, just come home, okay?"
"Mom, you'll be back tonight to make pickled fish, right?"
——
Earlier that day, Harrison had texted three times, insisting I wait for him to handle the seasonal wardrobe switch.
I sat on the edge of the bed, massaging medicated oil into my aching wrist—an old injury, a souvenir from saving Vera when she fell from a tree years ago. Every shift in weather brought a dull throb deep in the bone.
Harrison never forgot. He treated me like glass, taking on every household chore so I'd never strain my hand. To the outside world, he was a saint. As if he'd stripped away all his jagged edges just to be the perfect husband.
But he'd been working late for two weeks straight. I couldn't bear the thought of him coming home exhausted only to start cleaning, so I decided to surprise him. Opened the wardrobe to swap the seasonal clothes myself.
I didn't expect to find the yearbook buried beneath the winter coats.
Curiosity won. I flipped it open.
Vera's entry was brief, polite: "Harrison, I wish you a lifetime of happiness and a house full of grandkids."
The pages that followed were filled with his handwriting. A countdown of despair.
Seven years of torment. Six years of waiting. Five years of longing...
Year by agonizing year. But the entry for "Eight Years" was written with such force the pen had nearly torn through the paper.
Vera went abroad eight years ago. Harrison and I married eight years ago.
My thumb traced the indented paper. Vision blurred. A heavy stone settled on my chest, making every breath a struggle. The pain in my wrist flared, syncing with the ache in my heart.
Downstairs, the front door slammed.
Blake tossed his backpack onto the sofa, didn't even take off his shoes before turning to leave again.
"Almost dinner time," I called out, gesturing to the meal I'd prepared. "Where are you going?"
He paused, turning halfway. That's when I noticed the exquisitely wrapped pink gift box in his hands.
"A classmate's birthday?"
Blake quickly hid the box behind his back, expression turning defensive. "It's Auntie Vera's birthday. Dad and I promised to get her a gift."
He looked at me, young eyes devoid of guilt. "Mom, I know it's your birthday too. But you're too old for pink gifts. They don't suit you."
The air left my lungs. My husband and son hadn't just forgotten my birthday—they'd hidden the fact that Vera was back in the country.
Harrison didn't return until ten.
When he walked into the bedroom and saw the organized closet, his mask slipped. For a split second, panic flickered in his eyes.
He spun around, gaze sharp. "Sara, didn't I tell you to wait? Your wrist is acting up—you shouldn't be overworking yourself."
I forced my mouth into a smile, though my insides had gone cold.
"It's fine," I lied. "I only moved a few clothes. Didn't touch anything else."
第2章
The implication hung heavy in the air: I hadn't opened the yearbook.
Harrison's shoulders dropped, tension draining out of him in a long, audible exhale.
I pretended not to notice, turning to the empty living room. "Where's Blake?"
Normally, he'd be tucked into bed by now. But the house was silent. I couldn't find him anywhere.
Panic rising, I dialed his smartwatch. Only then did I discover the truth: he was still at Vera's apartment. He'd even used his allowance to buy her medicine.
His voice, shrill and accusatory, pierced through the speaker.
"It's all your fault, Mom! If it weren't for you, Auntie Vera wouldn't have hurt her back. She wouldn't be spending her birthday in pain."
"Blake—"
"Do you know how much it hurts her?" he interrupted, trembling with righteous indignation. "She can barely walk. She needs someone to take care of her. I'm not coming home. I want to stay here and be Auntie Vera's little hero."
Every word was a serrated blade dragging across my heart. I struggled to draw breath.
I gripped the phone tighter, forcing my voice steady. "Blake, doesn't your school have the parent-child sports day tomorrow? Come home tonight, and you can visit Auntie Vera after the event, okay?"
His refusal was immediate, cold and unyielding.
"No. I don't want anyone at school to know I have a bad mom."
The line went dead in my heart before the call even ended.
Seeing the color drain from my face, Harrison stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. His voice was smooth, practiced.
"It's fine, Sara. I'll go to the event with Blake tomorrow." He paused, eyes gleaming with a solution that served everyone but me. "It actually works out perfectly. While we're at the school, you can take Vera to the doctor to get her back checked."
Hearing his father's proposal, Blake's tone softened instantly.
"Mom, you haven't made that pickled fish stew in a long time. Can you make it tomorrow? Wait for Dad and me to come home to eat?"
Children are terrifyingly fickle. One second, you're the enemy; the next, you're simply the cook.
Blake was only in elementary school. I told myself his temperament was just a phase, that his heart wasn't truly malicious. He was just... impressionable.
My rigid expression softened. I couldn't help it. "Alright," I said, resigned. "Remember to bring your asthma inhaler tomorrow. Take care of yourself. If anything happens, call me immediately."
That night, sleep refused to claim me.
When I did drift off, I was trapped in a nightmare of relentless, pouring rain—the same deluge from the night my parents died. The water rose around me, cold and suffocating, unending.
I woke with a start several times, instinctively reaching across the mattress. The sheets beside me were cold.
Harrison wasn't there.
I remembered his excuse: I don't want to wake you up early, so I'll sleep in the study.
A flimsy lie. In the past, even when he had 5:00 AM shifts, he never left our bed. He used to cling to me until the last possible second.
I tried to silence the voice in my head, tried to tell myself I was paranoid, that Harrison wasn't sleeping separately just because Vera was back.
But the next morning, reality shattered my denial.
I called Vera repeatedly to coordinate the doctor's appointment. She didn't answer. Instead, a notification popped up on my phone.
Vera had posted a video to her Moments.
There they were—Harrison, Blake, and Vera—standing together on the school's athletic field. Matching smiles. Looking for all the world like a perfect, happy family.
The warmth I had tried to kindle turned to ice.
I thought I was taking Vera to the doctor?
I thought Harrison was taking Blake alone?
What was this?
My hand trembled. The ceramic bowl slipped from my fingers and shattered on the tiles.
A sharp pain shot through my foot. Blood gushed from a fresh cut where a shard had sliced the skin.
I moved to grab the first aid kit, but my wrist—injured previously by Blake—gave out. I couldn't even grip the counter to steady myself.
At that exact moment, the front door clicked open.
Harrison walked in, looking crisp and energized. I opened my mouth to ask for help, to tell him I was bleeding, but the words died in my throat.
Behind him stood Blake. And holding Blake's hand, looking radiant and very much not in need of a doctor, was Vera.
Blake looked up at her, his face glowing with adoration.
"Auntie Vera, I checked online," he announced, ignoring me completely. "For your back injury, you have to eat fish to heal faster. That's why I told Mom to make the pickled fish stew today. It should be ready for us right now."
第3章
Blake marched into the kitchen, expectations high. When he saw the pristine, empty counters, his face curdled into a scowl.
"Mom, I just asked Auntie Vera to go to the school event instead of you. Do you really have to throw a tantrum? Smashing bowls and refusing to cook?"
Harrison checked his watch, brow furrowed. His gaze landed on me, heavy with accusation.
"Vera's stomach is sensitive after years abroad. If she doesn't eat on schedule, she gets sick. I'm taking her out now." His tone hardened. "Sara, clean up this mess, then meet us at the restaurant I texted you. And vacuum thoroughly—Vera has a dust allergy. Don't miss a corner."
I caught the glint in Vera's eyes as they fawned over her. Not gratitude. Triumph.
That single, smug look severed the last thread of our friendship.
I'd wanted to ask Harrison to help bandage my bleeding foot. But the words died in my throat. It felt like swallowing acid—keeping it down burned my heart, but spitting it out would destroy what little dignity I had left.
They didn't wait for a response. Harrison and Blake ushered Vera out, leaving me alone with the wreckage.
My slipper was already sodden with blood. A stark crimson stain neither of them had noticed.
Why would they? Vera had occupied the throne in Harrison's heart for years. There was no room left for me.
I took a taxi to the hospital alone.
My wrist—injured earlier protecting Vera—trembled so badly I couldn't grip the intake forms. The paper fluttered to the floor. I bent to retrieve it, but my fingers failed me again.
The line behind me grew restless. Their impatient stares stripped away my composure, and I felt the hot prick of tears threatening to spill.
A small hand snatched the paper from the floor and held it out, steady and sure.
"Ma'am, if your hand hurts, why are you here alone?"
I looked down. A girl, no older than ten.
Her name was Bonnie Abbott. She explained she was an orphan who worked as a "hospital runner," helping patients navigate the system. Her fee was a flat twenty dollars.
Twenty dollars. Blake spent more than that on snacks in a single hour.
Impulsively, I transferred two hundred to her account. Almost immediately, my phone buzzed. She'd sent back one hundred and eighty.
"I only did twenty dollars' worth of work," she said firmly, eyes serious. "I can't take ten times what I earned. Money doesn't fall from the sky."
My vision blurred. Blake only ever complained his allowance was too small; he never considered the cost of earning it. Yet this child, who had nothing, understood the value of every cent.
Bonnie gave me her number for next time. I smiled through the ache in my chest and thanked her.
I returned to the empty house. I'd just collapsed onto the sofa when my phone rang. Harrison.
His voice was ice.
"Sara. I told you to meet us. Why aren't you here? Vera's stomach flared up because we waited. She's on an IV right now."
He didn't wait for an explanation.
"Get to the hospital immediately. You need to apologize to her. Bring a fruit basket on your way."
Then Blake's voice piped up from the background, sharp and piercing.
"Dad, tell Mom not to get mangoes! Auntie Vera is allergic."
The boy's childish voice stabbed straight through me.
"Mom is way too vicious. She did it on purpose to make Auntie Vera sick just so she'd be hospitalized."
Blake's voice shrilled through the phone speaker, dripping with a malice no child should possess.
"She's just mad about the parent-child activity. I don't want such a petty mom. I want Auntie Vera to be my mother!"
Harrison didn't hesitate. He accepted our son's twisted narrative as gospel, his voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze marrow.
"Sara, how old are you? You're a grown woman throwing tantrums like a toddler. What's the point?"
His lecture continued, sharp and condescending. "Blake is right. You really should learn from Vera—learn to be broad-minded instead of so self-absorbed."
I closed my eyes. Hot tears leaked out, sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto the fresh wound on my foot. The salt stung raw skin—a sharp, piercing reminder of reality.
Harrison didn't give me a chance to speak. He didn't want explanations; he wanted a target.
I had intended to tell him the truth. Hours ago, I'd sent him a WeChat message explaining I was at the hospital bandaging my foot and wouldn't be making dinner. I didn't know why he hadn't seen it—or if he'd simply chosen to ignore it.
But now, the words died in my throat.
If they actually cared about the truth, they would have asked. Even a blind man can feel his way there if he tries. But Harrison and Blake refused to lift the blindfold. I could shove evidence under a magnifying glass and they'd still claim they saw nothing.
Why bother? Justifying myself now would only invite more humiliation.
The mirage of my perfect marriage evaporated, leaving nothing but dry, barren ground.
I wiped my face. When I spoke, my voice was flat.
"Harrison, let's get a divorce."