My name is Madeline Carter, 34 years old, living in a small apartment in Denver, Colorado. My husband—Evan Carter, 31—was the man I once believed destiny had placed in my life. We met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He held the door for me when I almost dropped the cake I was carrying. A light bump, a smile, and our two lives crossed paths.

The beginning of our relationship wasn’t easy. His family strongly opposed him dating a woman three years older. His mother once said right in front of me:

“A woman older than you… later you’ll have different goals, different phases of life. Can such a relationship last?”

I could only give a faint smile. Evan squeezed my hand tightly and said firmly:

“I choose her.”

Eventually, his determination softened his parents. Our wedding took place with both families’ blessings, though I knew his parents still carried some worries.

After the wedding, both sides helped us with an amount equivalent to about $20,000 each so we could buy a small apartment. I deeply appreciated it—knowing not every parent can help their children like that.

Then came our first daughter—little Aria. The moment I saw her, the whole world seemed to shrink into a single point of light.

But joy came with exhaustion.

Evan worked overtime and traveled constantly, so in the months following childbirth, I handled nearly everything alone. Our parents were aging, so I didn’t want to burden them by asking them to live with us. I decided to hire a house helper.

Evan agreed immediately and even took the initiative to help me look.

After two weeks, he brought home a young woman with gentle features and clear eyes.

“This is Linda Nguyen, 21 years old. See if she fits.”

Linda was petite, polite, and soft-spoken. She said she had been working since she was 17, with experience in childcare, cleaning, and basic cooking. Hearing that eased more than half my worries.

For the first six months, Linda worked incredibly diligently. She woke at 5 a.m., cleaned, fed Aria, hung laundry, changed the bed sheets—everything spotless. Evan seemed pleased too, often complimenting her for being hardworking and well-mannered.

But there was one thing… that bothered me a little.

Linda liked to shower very late at night.

Not for 10–15 minutes like most people, but for nearly an hour.

Many nights, close to midnight, I would pass the bathroom and still hear the water running. Our apartment only had one bathroom, so it was inconvenient at times. I reminded her once or twice, but she only blushed and replied shyly:

“I—I’m used to it. Back home, I always wait for everyone to finish before I take mine.”

She sounded so honest and timid that I gradually stopped paying attention to it.

I never suspected anything else.

Then the unexpected happened one night in November.

We had friends over for dinner. Evan drank a lot, and so did I. After the gathering, exhausted, I lulled Aria to sleep and collapsed onto the bed.

I didn’t know how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes, it was past 1 a.m.

Thirsty and needing to use the bathroom, I walked out of the bedroom. But as I approached the bathroom, I saw the door closed and the light on inside.

I assumed it was Evan—he often took a warm shower before bed when drunk.

I waited.

Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.

I started feeling uneasy.

I knocked gently:

“Evan, are you still in there?”

There was a faint shuffle and then his voice responded:

“I—I’ll be out soon.”

Something in his tone felt… unnatural.

A sense of unease crawled up my spine.

I waited a few more minutes, but the door still didn’t open.

My heart began pounding. A vague yet suffocating intuition tightened inside me.

I knocked again, harder:

“Evan? What’s going on?”

No answer.

At that moment, something inside me sank.

I turned away, opened a drawer nearby, and grabbed the spare key. My hands trembled violently.

Still, I slid the key into the lock.

Click.

The door opened.

And then—

My entire body froze.

It felt like the air had been drained out of the small room.

Evan stood with his back toward me, still wearing his shirt but with buttons mismatched as if put on in a rush. Behind him…

Linda was pressed against the corner of the room, her hair wet, her house dress disheveled as though hastily adjusted.

Both of them stared at me with startled eyes—eyes that could hide nothing.

I didn’t scream. Didn’t shout. Didn’t cry.

I just stood there, feeling as though someone had removed all the bones from my body.

The room shrank into a suffocating space of disbelief.

A minute… stretched like an eternity.

Evan rushed toward me, voice panicked:

“Madeline… please listen. It was a moment of weakness. I’m sorry. I really am…”

Linda bowed her head, hands trembling.

My surroundings spun. I had to hold onto the wall to keep myself steady.

“Why…?”
My voice was so hoarse I barely recognized it.

Evan fell to his knees, clinging to me like someone drowning:

“I was wrong. I swear this is the first time. Linda often showered late… we bumped into each other a few times… and I… I lost control…”

His excuse cut like a blade.

He blamed his lapse in judgment, their chance encounters near the bathroom, her nightly showers…

But he never realized one truth:

A breach of trust doesn’t begin in a moment of contact.
It begins the moment you let your heart wander.

My eyes burned.

“Why am I even hearing this? Why…?”

Evan begged, voice cracking:

“Please. Don’t leave me.”

I stepped back, avoiding him like something contaminated.

Linda burst into tears, whispering:

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for anything to happen…”

Didn’t mean to?

A 21-year-old young woman, showering late for an hour, in a home with only one bathroom, always encountering Evan at those exact times?

Didn’t mean to?

I gave a cold laugh that even I found frightening.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I sat by the window, holding my head while the city lights flickered outside, feeling like I was being swallowed by an endless darkness.

Evan stayed in the living room, not daring to approach.

Linda quietly packed her things and left before dawn.

I didn’t stop her. I had no strength left.

The next morning, Evan was still kneeling in front of me.

He said he would do anything—that he regretted it deeply, that he was terrified of losing our family.

Yet the image from the bathroom replayed over and over, a fracture that refused to heal.

My heart felt torn, numb, shattered.

I had trusted him completely. I defended our love against his family’s objections. I carried his child. I gave everything to build this home. And he could cast it aside for one impulsive moment?

I sat silently for hours, staring at Aria’s bowl of porridge still steaming on the table.

I looked at my daughter… at the empty space Linda had left behind… and at Evan kneeling helplessly.

I knew one thing:

If I forgive him, I will carry this wound forever.
If I don’t, this family will fall apart.

But I don’t know how much more pain my heart can take.

At this moment… I have only one question left:

What should I do?