I am 11 years older than my husband. A year ago, a beautiful girl joined his department. She began to hit on him. My husband tried to laugh it off delicately, and I didn’t take it seriously either. We’d always had the kind of relationship built on honesty and laughter — the kind that made people forget our age difference. But the other day, I heard the intercom ring. And there she was, standing at our door, smiling as though she had every reason to be there.
She stepped inside, holding a folder, saying she needed my husband’s signature for a work document. I watched quietly as they spoke, her tone light and overly familiar. My husband noticed my silence. When she left, he closed the door gently and sat beside me. “I should’ve told you she might stop by,” he said. “She’s been… crossing lines lately. I didn’t want to make it into something bigger than it is.” His honesty disarmed me. I could see the worry in his eyes — not guilt, but concern that I might doubt him.
