built on lies

It all started on a cold, quiet night at the office. The kind of night where the city outside feels miles away, and the fluorescent lights hum a lonely tune. My wife, Sarah, had called to say goodnight, her voice warm and loving, a stark contrast to the sterile air of the office. I was working late on a crucial project, and my secretary, Emma, was the only other person there. In a moment of weakness, fueled by stress and a fleeting sense of loneliness, a line was crossed. A stupid, reckless decision I’ve regretted every single day since. But one moment became another, and a casual mistake grew into a full-blown affair. It’s been months, and I've been living two separate lives, each one a fragile house of cards ready to collapse. I've become a master of deception. I find myself constantly checking my phone, making sure my stories are straight, and listening for the slightest change in my wife's tone. The once-simple pleasure of coming home now feels like an interrogation. I love Sarah, I truly do. And our two kids are my world. The thought of losing them is a physical pain, a constant knot in my stomach. Today, the pretense is harder than ever to maintain. We’re in the backyard, a picture-perfect family scene. The sun is warm, the kids are splashing and laughing in the pool, and Sarah is sitting beside me, looking more beautiful and content than ever. She smiles, leans her head on my shoulder, and says, “I love these moments. It feels like we have everything we could ever want.” Her words, meant to bring comfort, feel like a punch to the gut. The guilt washes over me, heavy and suffocating. It's in this moment of perfect domestic bliss that I realize how utterly a lie my life has become. The fear of being found out is no longer a distant possibility—it’s a living, breathing thing, sitting right between us.