That day, my husband was supposed to be at work for at least another three hours.
I knew that for a fact—we’d talked about it over breakfast. I was home alone, cleaning, moving through the house on autopilot, when there was a knock at the door.
I opened it and saw him standing there.
Or at least, I thought it was him.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Why are you home so early?” I asked.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” he said easily. “My boss let me leave early.”
Before I could say anything else, he stepped past me and walked straight toward our bedroom. No hug. No kiss. No familiar comment about the mess or the music playing. Just straight down the hallway.
Something tightened in my chest.
I followed him.
He moved differently—too stiff, too deliberate. In the bedroom, he stopped in front of the closet and just stood there, like he was waiting for something.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He turned to me slowly. That’s when I noticed the details that didn’t fit. His shoes—ones I’d never seen before. His jacket—wrong brand, wrong color. Even his cologne was off. Close… but not right.
Then he said my name.
And he said it wrong.
Just one syllable off. Tiny. Almost unnoticeable.
Except my husband had never once said it that way.
My heart started pounding. I took a step back and asked, quietly, “Who are you?”
His face changed instantly. The friendly expression dropped like a mask.
“I think I should go,” he said.
I ran.
I locked myself in the bathroom and called my husband—my real husband—my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.
He answered from work.
“I’m still at the office,” he said. “Why?”
That was when I heard the front door open and close.
The police later told me the man had been watching our house for weeks. He knew my husband’s schedule. He’d studied his clothes, his walk, even the way he spoke. He planned to wait in the bedroom until I relaxed—until I stopped paying attention.
I still don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t followed him.
Now, every knock at the door makes my stomach drop.
And sometimes, when my husband comes home early, I look at him just a second longer—checking every detail—before I let myself breathe.
