I Found a Note in My Husband’s Shirt That Said, ‘Please Don’t Let Her Find Out’

“Just the usual. Alan forgot his key card again. This was the third time this month. I think the receptionist’s going to strangle him.”

“And the budget meeting?” I asked, smiling because I’d learned that was expected of me.

“It ran long. Nothing new, really,” he said, shrugging.

We watched the evening news, then flipped through channels until we landed on a cooking show neither of us really cared about. The host was making some kind of scallop dish, narrating with too much enthusiasm.

Ron fell asleep before the episode ended. His hand rested lightly on my knee, warm and familiar.

I stared at the screen, pretending to follow the recipe, but my mind was far from butter and thyme.

The note was still in my apron pocket.

The next morning, once Ron left for work, I sat at the kitchen table with my coffee cooling beside me. The note lay in front of me, folded like it had something to confess.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number. After three rings, a soft female voice came on.

“Hello?”

I hesitated for half a second. “I think you left something in my husband’s shirt pocket.”

There was a pause. I could hear faint humming in the background, maybe a kettle warming up.

Then, with a calmness I didn’t expect, she spoke.

“I was wondering when you’d call.”

Her name was Allison. She said it gently, as if she already knew mine and was simply confirming a detail she had memorized long ago. The sound of it settled uncomfortably in my chest.

“And you are?”

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