I THOUGHT IT WAS JUST A BROKEN TOILET — UNTIL THE PLUMBER PULLED OUT SOMETHING THAT MADE MY HUSBAND AND ME GO TO WAR ON THE SPOT

My name is Emily Parker.
My husband is David Parker.

We met on a strange, rainy afternoon — the kind of encounter people like to call “destiny.”

That day, I had just finished work and was hurrying across a small street near my office building when I bumped straight into him. The cup of coffee in my hand spilled all over his white shirt. I panicked and apologized over and over, but he just smiled and said,
“It’s okay. At least now we have a reason to talk.”

We spoke for less than ten minutes, yet when we parted, I already felt as if I had known him for a long time. It was a feeling that was hard to explain — familiar, intense, and overwhelming. Looking back now, I realize that perhaps it was because our initial emotions were too strong that I ignored so many warning signs I should have noticed.

David was not a remarkable man in terms of appearance. He looked ordinary, even forgettable in a crowd. Meanwhile, I worked in marketing for a large corporation. I took care of my looks, earned a stable income, and was steadily climbing the career ladder. The gap between us was obvious to anyone.

From the very beginning, my parents opposed our relationship.

My mother said bluntly,
“Emily, you’re far ahead of him. Not just financially, but in ambition and mindset. I’m afraid you’ll be the one carrying everything in the future.”

My friends didn’t support us either. They said David was too gentle, too content with mediocrity, lacking drive. But at the time, I only smiled. I thought they were being too practical. I believed in love. I believed that if two people loved each other deeply enough, all differences could be overcome.

I loved David because he was gentle and attentive. He didn’t impose his will on me, didn’t act like a traditional macho husband. When I was tired, he made tea. When I was stressed, he listened to me complain for hours. I thought that was enough.

We got married after two years of dating.

At first, married life unfolded exactly as I had hoped. I stayed busy with work, often working overtime until late at night. David quit his office job and started freelancing, which meant he was home most of the time. He took care of almost everything in the house — cooking, cleaning, laundry.

Every night when I came home, the apartment was neat and tidy, dinner already prepared. Sometimes I came back very late, and David would still be waiting, reheating the food and boiling hot water so I could shower. He even learned how to massage my neck and shoulders to help me relax. I once thought I was the luckiest woman alive.

David never pressured me about having children. Whenever relatives asked, he would smile and say,
“We’re not in a hurry. Emily needs to focus on her career first.”

I knew he said that partly for my sake. I was striving for a department head position — an important milestone in my career. I didn’t want to have a child before I felt secure.

However, after three years of marriage, I began to sense subtle, quiet changes in David.

He initiated intimacy less and less. Our sex life became infrequent, and sometimes weeks passed without anything at all. When I asked him about it, he said he was tired, stressed, needed rest. I blamed myself for being too busy, thinking I had neglected my husband’s feelings.

Then one evening at dinner, David suddenly asked,
“Emily, when do you think we should have a child?”

I paused for a moment before replying,
“Give me one more year. I’m so close to getting promoted.”

David was silent for a long time. I heard a soft sigh escape him. Finally, he nodded.
“Okay. I can wait.”

But from that moment on, something in his eyes changed. The warmth and eagerness I once saw were gone.

I had my suspicions. I wondered if he felt inferior staying at home while his wife’s career kept advancing. Or worse — had he found someone else?

But I dismissed those thoughts. David wasn’t that kind of man. He was gentle, simple, family-oriented. That was what I believed.

Until the day he said he wanted to go back to his hometown for a while.

That day, I had just suggested that we take a short trip together to rekindle our relationship. David avoided my gaze and said,
“I want to go home for a bit. My mom isn’t feeling well.”

Before I could object, he packed his suitcase and left. No argument. No further explanation. The way he left made me uneasy, but I tried to stay calm.

The next day, everything changed.

That morning, I discovered the toilet in our bathroom was clogged. The water wouldn’t drain, and a foul smell filled the room. I found it strange — we had always been careful, and this had never happened before.

I called a plumber.

As the plumber bent down to fix the toilet, I stood nearby, watching out of simple curiosity. I had no bad premonition at all. Then suddenly, the plumber frowned and pulled out a wet, tangled mess.

I froze.

It was a large clump of long hair, matted together. It wasn’t mine. I always kept my hair shoulder-length, but those strands were much longer. Mixed in were used condoms.

My hands began to shake. My ears rang. I couldn’t hear what the plumber was saying anymore.

David and I had never used condoms. We never needed to.

In that instant, my world collapsed.

When David returned two days later, I was already waiting.

I laid everything out on the table — the hair sealed in a plastic bag, the condoms. I didn’t cry. I just stared at him.

David turned pale.

At first, he denied everything. He said he didn’t know, said the plumber must have been mistaken, said I was overthinking. But when I showed him the photos, when I told him I had questioned the plumber carefully, he had nothing left to say.

Finally, David slumped into a chair.

He confessed.

The woman’s name was Laura. He met her during one of my long business trips. Laura was younger than me, less accomplished, but she made him feel like a man. She came to our apartment when I wasn’t home. They had been there many times.

I don’t remember exactly what I screamed. I only remember the sound of things breaking, the shouting, my own voice crying out in despair.

“You betrayed me in our own home, David?”

He said nothing.

The marriage I once believed to be a safe harbor turned out to be like a clogged toilet — seemingly normal on the surface, but full of filth inside long before anyone noticed.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I sat alone in the living room, looking around the apartment that had once been our home. I thought about the meals he cooked for me, the massages, the gentle words. It turned out they were only part of the silence before the storm.

The next morning, I packed my things.

I didn’t beg. I didn’t cling. I understood that once something had been dragged up from the depths, it could never be stuffed back where it belonged.

I walked out of the apartment carrying a dull but undeniable pain.

I had lost my husband.