EAGER TO COME HOME — AND THE DOOR THAT ENDED EVERYTHING
My name is Michael Anderson. I’m thirty-six years old and work as a project manager for a construction corporation based in Texas. The job pays well—about $120,000 a year—but it comes at a cost. I travel constantly. Some months, I’m home for only a few days.
My wife, Emily Anderson, is three years younger than me. We’ve been married for four years and have a son named Lucas, who just turned three. Because both of us work long hours and living costs in the city are high, we decided to send Lucas back to Ohio to live with my parents.
That decision broke Emily’s heart.
“He’s still so small,” she cried more than once.
But like many things in marriage, emotions had to give way to practicality. We told ourselves it was temporary—just a few years, until our finances were more stable.
After that, our two-bedroom apartment in Dallas had only one person left living in it: Emily.
I was almost always away.
Emily once said to me quietly,
“I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m afraid of being alone.”
She suggested I change jobs—find something that would keep me closer to home. But at that time, my career was taking off. Projects came one after another. My boss trusted me. Promotions and bonuses followed.
“Just a few more years,” I told her.
“I’ll make it up to you and Lucas.”
Emily didn’t argue. She just went silent.
Unlike me, who earned a fixed salary, Emily partnered with two friends to open a small home-goods store. The initial investment was around $50,000. She turned out to have real talent for business. In less than a year, the shop was profitable, bringing in $30,000 to $35,000 a month in revenue.
I was genuinely happy for her. Every time we talked on the phone and she excitedly told me about new orders, loyal customers, and plans to expand, I felt proud.
I thought, At least while I’m gone, she’s busy. At least she won’t feel so lonely.
I was wrong.
That business trip lasted twelve days. When it ended earlier than expected, I took an extra day off. I wanted to surprise Emily—come home early, buy her favorite bottle of red wine, cook dinner, and reconnect.
I took an early flight and arrived at our apartment at 8:00 a.m.
The sky was clear. My mood was light.
I pulled my suitcase to the door and reached for the handle.
Locked.
That was strange. By this hour, Emily was usually already at the store.
I knocked.
No answer.
I called her phone.
No response.
A sudden sense of unease crept in. I knocked harder, called her name loudly.
“Emily! Are you inside?”
Nothing.
Ten minutes passed.
Twenty.
My heart started racing. My mind spiraled—what if she’d fainted? Had an accident? I ran downstairs to get the building security and called a locksmith.
Thirty minutes later, the door was forced open.
The smell of alcohol hit me immediately.
The living room was a mess. Empty beer bottles scattered across the floor. On the dining table sat an untouched meal from the night before, cold and half-eaten, wine glasses still standing.
This wasn’t dinner for one.
My heart pounded.
I walked toward the bedroom.
The door was half open.
I pushed it.
And my world collapsed.
On the bed were Emily and Daniel Carter—her closest friend, the man I had trusted without question. They were lying together in a way that needed no explanation.
I froze.
Then rage consumed me.
I lunged at Daniel, dragging him off the bed and punching him again and again. He was disoriented, barely awake. Emily screamed, jolting up, crying hysterically.
“Michael! Stop! Please!”
Daniel fell to the floor.
“You bastard!” I shouted, my vision burning red.
Emily grabbed me from behind, holding me with all her strength.
“Let me explain! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
She sobbed, trembling, then asked in shock,
“Why are you home so early?”
That question cut deeper than any punch.
Through tears, Emily explained that the store had just signed a major contract worth $200,000. The team had celebrated the night before. Too much alcohol. A moment of lost control. A terrible mistake.
“It was only once, Michael. I swear.”
I couldn’t listen. I tried to go after Daniel again, but Emily clung to me, crying and begging, shielding him long enough for him to run out of the apartment.
The door slammed shut.
Silence filled the room.
That afternoon, I wrote the divorce papers.
No screaming.
No destruction.
Just a cold, crushing finality.
Emily dropped to her knees in front of me.
“I was wrong… I know I was wrong…”
“You can hit me, yell at me—anything—but please don’t leave me…”
She cried until her voice broke, swearing she would cut off all contact, close the store, start over from nothing.
But in my mind, there was only one image: the bedroom door opening that morning.
I looked at Emily—the woman I once loved, trusted, and believed I would grow old with—and realized something terrible:
Some things, once broken, can never be restored.
“You didn’t betray me in one night,” I said quietly.
“You betrayed me the moment you chose silence instead of telling me you were lonely.”
Emily collapsed to the floor.
I picked up my suitcase and walked out.
Behind me, her sobs echoed through the apartment. But inside me, there was only emptiness.
Some doors, once opened, change your life forever.
And the price of betrayal is always higher than people imagine.
