I had been gone for a week on a work trip. My husband, **Ethan**, had assured me over and over that everything was fine. “Enjoy your trip, babe. The kids and I will be just fine.”

But the second I walked through the door at **midnight**, something felt **off**.

Then I saw them.

My **two sons, 6 and 8**, curled up on the cold, dusty hallway floor, using their backpacks as pillows. **What the hell?**

My heart stopped. Had there been a **fire? A flood?** Was there some **emergency** I didn’t know about?

I flicked the light off, trying not to wake them, and **carefully stepped over their small, sleeping bodies**.

First, I checked our bedroom. **Empty.**

Where was **Ethan**?

Something was very, very wrong.

Then I turned to the boys’ room.

As I got closer, **I heard noises.** Muffled shuffling. A quiet giggle. My stomach twisted. **Who was in there?**

Slowly, without turning on the light, I cracked the door open.

**And I gasped.**

Because lying **in my sons’ beds**, wrapped up in their blankets like they owned the place…

**Was another woman.**

And right beside her, in the small twin bed that belonged to my youngest son…

**Was my husband.**