MY HUSBAND LEFT THE BURNER ON AFTER HE RAN OUT THE BACK DOOR
I saw the smoke curling from the pan the second I walked in the back door. The acrid smell of burning oil hit me first, thick and gagging, followed by the piercing, relentless shriek of the smoke detector from the hall. My chest tightened – where was he? He was supposed to be home hours ago, I’d only run to the corner store.
I ran through the kitchen, swatting at the smoke, frantically looking for him, grabbing his phone off the counter where he’d clearly dropped it just before he left. My fingers trembled as I dialed his number, the heat from the stove still radiating onto my face. He answered on the third ring, his voice tight, breathless, like he’d been running too.
“Where are you? What happened? The kitchen is full of smoke!” I practically screamed into the receiver, my voice cracking with fear. He paused, a long, tense silence on the line, the smoke detector still deafening in the background. “I had to go,” he finally choked out, not explaining, not apologizing for the fire or the panic he’d caused.
“Had to go where? Why didn’t you even turn the stove off?” I demanded, feeling a cold dread pool in my stomach. His next words were a low whisper, almost lost beneath the alarm, explaining everything but making it worse. “Because she was here, and I think she saw me.”
I didn’t know who he meant by ‘she’ until my front doorbell rang slowly.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The ringing echoed through the smoke-filled house, a polite, almost hesitant sound that belied the chaos it heralded. My blood ran cold. “Who saw you? Who’s at the door?” I demanded, my voice shaking now, the phone slipping in my sweaty grip.
He was silent for a moment, then: “It’s… it’s Carol. My… my wife. My *other* wife.”
The floor seemed to drop out from under me. Two wives? It was a plot twist so ridiculous, so cliché, it felt like a bad dream. But the smell of burning oil, the blaring alarm, and the insistent ringing of the doorbell were horrifyingly real.
“I… I don’t understand,” I stammered, the words failing to form in my throat. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain later. I have to go. Don’t open the door,” he pleaded, then hung up.
The ringing persisted, a relentless, rhythmic pulse. I stared at the door, paralyzed. The smoke was getting thicker, stinging my eyes and making me cough. I needed to deal with the stove, with the fire, but my feet were rooted to the spot.
With a deep breath, I forced myself into action. I grabbed a towel, wet it under the tap, and draped it over the smoking pan. The hissing sound was loud, but the smoke began to dissipate. Finally, I managed to open the windows, letting in a rush of fresh air that slowly cleared the room.
Only then, with the smoke detector silenced and the immediate danger averted, did I approach the door. I peered through the peephole. A woman stood on the porch, her face etched with a mixture of concern and suspicion. She looked vaguely familiar. It *was* Carol, the woman from the local bakery, the one who always smiled kindly when I bought his favorite sourdough.
Taking another shaky breath, I opened the door.
“Hi,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I saw your husband leave. He looked… upset. And I smelled smoke. Is everything alright?”
I looked at her, at her genuine concern, and a wave of nausea washed over me. How long had this been going on? How many lies had he told? How could he do this?
“No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Everything is not alright.”
I stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. “Come inside. I think we have a lot to talk about.”
The look of apprehension on Carol’s face mirrored the one I felt inside. As she stepped across the threshold, I knew that my life, the life I thought I knew, was about to change forever. The acrid smell of smoke still lingered in the air, a bitter reminder of the betrayal that had just been revealed. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the truth was going to be even more devastating than the fire.