Lately, my husband has been working late far too often. Not just coming home at eight or nine like usual—but close to 11 p.m. every night. At first, I thought he was simply overloaded with work, trying to earn a raise by year’s end. But as the days passed, his “overtime shifts” became more frequent… and more suspicious.
One afternoon, I casually asked my father—who works at the same company as my husband:
“Dad, is the company really that busy these days? My husband keeps working late.”
My father answered without hesitation:
“Busy gì đâu? There’s barely anything to do. We even finish early most days.”
I froze.
If the company wasn’t busy… then why was my husband coming home so late every night?
A small seed of doubt took root inside me, growing into something sharp and painful.
That evening, my husband sent me a familiar message:
“I’m working overtime again tonight. You and our son eat without me.”
I replied calmly: “Okay, take care.”
But in my heart, I had already decided:
Tonight, I would find out the truth.
Around 6 p.m., I parked my motorbike near the company gate. The sky was dimming, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. I tightened my coat against the breeze and watched.
At 6:10 p.m., my husband walked out with a few coworkers. They exchanged a few words, then he separated from them and headed down the street alone. But instead of turning right—the way home—he turned left into a narrow residential lane.
My heart dropped.
I started my bike and followed quietly.
He walked deeper and deeper into a quiet neighborhood, far from the city lights. Finally, he stopped in front of a tiny house lit by a warm yellow glow. And then something shocking happened: a fluffy black cat ran out and rubbed against his legs—so familiar, so affectionate, like greeting its owner.
A gray-haired elderly woman stepped out. Beside her was a little girl, around five years old, bright-eyed and adorable. The moment she saw my husband, the girl ran to him, grabbing his hand with a familiarity that stabbed me in the chest.
The elderly woman bowed politely to my husband, her expression respectful… almost deferential.
My breath hitched.
Who were they?
An elderly woman? A child?
A secluded little house my husband somehow visited often enough for their cat to know him?
My husband—an orphan, with no remaining relatives—had no reason to be close to anyone like this.
Unless… unless there was a truth he had never told me.
He followed them inside. I could see him through the curtains—laughing, giving gifts to the child, talking quietly with the woman.
I sat in my bike for two hours, frozen, suffocating in fear and confusion.
At around 8 p.m., my husband finally walked out, waved goodbye, patted the girl’s head, and left.
Once he was gone, I stepped off my bike, legs trembling, and approached the house. My heartbeat thudded painfully as I rang the doorbell.
The elderly woman opened the door cautiously.
“I—I want to ask you something,” I said, my voice shaking. “What is your relationship with my husband? And that little girl… who is she to him?”
At my question, the woman faltered. Her lips trembled, and she lowered her gaze as if carrying a burden she’d been forced to keep for years.
She swallowed hard, then spoke with a sorrowful sigh:
“Cô… didn’t he tell you anything? Five years ago… your husband came to me. He asked me to take care of that child. She is… his daughter. His daughter with his ex-wife.”
The world shattered around me.
I felt my knees weaken, my breath stopping in my chest.
His daughter?
A child he kept hidden for five years?
A secret he never once mentioned—not even when he married me?
The girl’s eyes—big, round, identical to his own—appeared in my mind, and my heart cracked open.
The truth hit me like a lightning strike.
All those nights of “working late”…
All those lies…
All the moments he walked through our door, pretending nothing was wrong…
He had been coming here.
To them.
To his other family.
Tears burned down my cheeks.
And in that moment, I knew—
Our marriage would never, ever be the same again.
