Ritual Deceit

Seven years, I have loved my wife, Emily. Truly loved her. We built a quiet, comfortable life together—one based on trust and mutual respect. I thought I knew everything about her, even the things I chose to ignore, like her devotion to paganism. I just saw her rituals as a harmless, eccentric hobby. A bit of "hocus-pocus" nonsense. I never bothered to ask questions because I thought it was all just an act. I was wrong. ​Last night, a strange suspicion gnawed at me. I followed her to the woods. I expected a coven in robes, chanting by candlelight. What I saw was a circle of women, my wife among them, dancing with an intense spiritual energy I had always dismissed. But it wasn't the ceremony that broke me. It was what came next. They brought out a blindfolded man, and the "ritual" became something else entirely—a profound act of communion. ​For her, maybe it's a sacred, spiritual act. For me, what I saw was a physical reality that shattered the trust I thought we shared. The "rituals" weren't a cover; they were what she believed in, and what I just didn't see. My seven-year marriage, the life I thought we built, feels like a lie. ​I went home. I'm sitting here now, the morning sun on the windowpane, the coffee smelling just the same, and the weight of what I saw feels heavier than I can bear. She's stirring upstairs. She'll come down soon and smile at me, just like she always does. And I have to decide what I'll say.