My wife and I have been married for almost two years. From the outside, our life looked peaceful—maybe even perfect. People around us often praised us as a model couple: I was quiet and gentle, she was soft-spoken and graceful. Many said I was blessed to have married a woman like her.
We hadn’t had a child yet, not because we didn’t want one, but because it simply hadn’t happened. We planned that this year, we would really try. Both of us believed that having a baby would deepen our bond, make our marriage even stronger.
I adored my wife. Even after long days at work, I would step into the kitchen to help her with dinner. I washed my own underwear so she wouldn’t have to. She sometimes scolded me playfully for that, saying, “Just let me wash it for you.”
But I liked taking care of my own things. I believed that a man who could care for himself was a man who could love his wife better.
One week, I had to go on a three-day business trip. Before leaving, I told my wife:
“Why don’t you stay with your parents for a few days? You’ll be lonely here by yourself.”
But she shook her head firmly.
“I’m used to being home. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Her tone surprised me. Usually she hated being alone. But I didn’t think much of it—I just assumed she wanted some peace and quiet.
The trip was exhausting. Meetings, reports, partners, schedules—it drained all my energy. Every night I video-called her. She was cheerful, asking me if I had eaten well or slept enough. Not for a second did I feel something was off.
When I came home after three days, I was dead tired. I dropped my suitcase and headed straight to the bathroom. Halfway through showering, I realized I’d forgotten to bring clean clothes inside.
I cracked the bathroom door open and called out:
“Babe, could you bring me some underwear and a shirt?”
“Okay! Hold on!” she replied.
A moment later, the door opened just enough for her hand to slip inside with a few pieces of clothing.
I glanced down instinctively—and froze.
She was holding a pair of men’s underwear.
But it wasn’t mine.
Wrong color. Wrong style. Wrong brand. Too small. Too thin. Completely unfamiliar.
Something inside me snapped.
I snatched the underwear from her hand and threw it onto the bathroom floor.
“Whose is this?”
My wife jumped, startled.
“What? Isn’t that yours? I thought—”
“Thought? YOU THOUGHT I WEAR THIS?”
My voice echoed off the tiled walls.
She stood there pale, trembling.
“I… I found it in the drawer. I thought you bought a new one…”
“For the last time—have I EVER worn anything like that? Have you EVER seen me buy this?”
She swallowed hard.
“I… I don’t remember. You usually handle your own underwear so I never pay attention…”
She looked confused. But I wasn’t.
I knew my belongings.
I knew this wasn’t mine.
My mind raced with one horrifying question:
Who was in my house while I was gone?
Who slept in my bed?
Who left that underwear behind?
I stepped closer, voice shaking with rage:
“Tell me the truth. Before I completely lose my temper—tell me NOW.”
She burst into tears and sank to her knees.
“H-honey… the night you left… I went out drinking with some old friends… I got so drunk… I couldn’t remember anything. A strange man—he brought me home. And then… we… we slept together…”
Her words didn’t stab—they smashed into my chest.
She continued between sobs:
“The next morning, when he left… I cleaned the room and found that underwear under the bed. I thought it was yours… so I put it in the drawer.”
My vision blurred.
The woman I loved.
The woman I protected.
The woman I trusted more than anyone…
While I was working three days nonstop, she had gone out, drunk herself senseless, and let a stranger take her home—and into our bed.
I let out a broken laugh. It sounded more like a choke.
She grabbed my leg, crying so hard she could barely breathe:
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean for it to happen… Please forgive me… please…”
But once trust shatters, no amount of tears can glue it back instantly.
My voice was hoarse:
“Why did you let yourself drink that much? Why did you allow another man to take you home? Did you think of me? Of our family?”
She lowered her head, crying silently.
And I… I stood there numb. Angry. Betrayed. Heartbroken.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. But I couldn’t.
I could only stand there, feeling my chest tighten with pain.
I didn’t want a divorce.
Despite everything, I still loved her. I still wanted a child with her. I still wanted our home.
But could I ever trust her again?
That night, I sat in the living room until nearly dawn. She stayed in our bedroom, crying quietly. Every sound felt like a needle digging into my skin.
I buried my face in my hands and asked myself the same questions over and over:
If I forgive her… will I live the rest of my life in doubt?
If I don’t… can I truly walk away from the woman I love?
No answer made the pain go away.
One thing was certain:
From the moment that unfamiliar underwear appeared…
our marriage was no longer whole.
And now, I’m still left with the question that haunts me every night:
What should I do?
