I’ve always been a solid sleeper. My husband, Jake, knows this, and we’ve joked about how I could probably sleep through a tornado. That’s why, when I woke up in the middle of the night and found his side of the bed empty, I was confused.
I checked the bathroom, the kitchen, and even the garage, but he wasn’t anywhere in the house. The next morning, I asked casually, “How did you sleep last night?”
“Great,” he replied with a smile. “Didn’t wake up at all.”
That lie hit me like a punch to the gut. Why would he lie? Where had he gone? The questions consumed me all day.
That night, I decided to find out the truth. I pretended to fall asleep but stayed alert, listening for any movement. A few hours later, I felt him slip out of bed and quietly leave the room. My heart raced as I waited for the front door to click shut.
As soon as he was gone, I got dressed, grabbed my keys, and followed him. I kept a safe distance, my palms sweating as I tailed his car.
He drove to the outskirts of town, stopping at an old, abandoned building. Chills ran down my spine as I parked nearby and watched him enter. What could he possibly be doing here in the middle of the night?
Summoning my courage, I crept closer and peeked through one of the broken windows. Inside, I saw something that made my breath catch: Jake was sitting at a table covered with old photo albums and dusty trinkets. He looked lost in thought, his fingers tracing over the pages of a book.
Confused, I moved to a better vantage point and realized what he was looking at—photos of a woman who looked strikingly like his late mother. It was then that I noticed a small shrine set up in the corner of the room, with candles and flowers surrounding a framed photo of her.
I froze, the pieces falling into place. Jake’s mom had passed away when he was a teenager, and though he rarely talked about her, I knew her death had left a deep scar.
Unable to watch any longer, I quietly walked back to my car and drove home.
The next morning, I decided to confront him—not with anger, but with love. Over breakfast, I gently said, “Jake, I know you’ve been leaving the house at night. I followed you last night… and I saw the shrine.”
His fork clattered to the table, and his face turned pale. “You… followed me?”
“I did,” I admitted. “I wasn’t trying to invade your privacy, but I was worried. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tears welled up in his eyes as he sighed heavily. “I didn’t know how to. I’ve been missing her a lot lately, and I didn’t want to burden you. That old building was one of her favorite spots when I was a kid. I go there to feel close to her.”
My heart ached for him. “Jake, you don’t have to carry this alone. I’m your partner. If you’re hurting, I want to help.”
He nodded, his voice breaking. “I know. I’m sorry for keeping it from you.”
That night, instead of sneaking out, Jake took me to the building and showed me the shrine. We lit candles together and shared stories about his mom, laughing and crying as the memories flowed.
What started as a mystery ended up deepening our bond. Jake learned that he didn’t have to face his grief in solitude, and I realized that sometimes, even the people we’re closest to need a reminder that we’re here for them—no matter what.
