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.**