I UNLOCKED HIS OLD PHONE AND SAW CALLS TO AN UNKNOWN NUMBER AT 3 AM
His old phone buzzed on the counter and I picked it up, curiosity getting the better of me. I hadn’t seen him use it in months, always his new one, always guarded. I tried his birthdate, our anniversary, then suddenly, the screen lit up, illuminating my face in its harsh, blue glow. The call log was a sea of unknown numbers, all missed calls, all timestamped between 2 AM and 4 AM for weeks now.
My stomach churned, a cold dread washing over me. I scrolled down further, fingers trembling slightly as the small vibrations of the phone became an insistent hum against my palm. He’d told me he was going to therapy, trying to fix “his issues,” that everything was going to be better soon. Lies. All lies.
Then I saw a text from a contact saved only as “JS.” The message: “It’s done. Meet me at the bridge later tonight, bring the package.” My mouth went dry, tasting like old pennies. A faint, cloying scent of cheap cigarette smoke, definitely not his, seemed to cling to the plastic case, making my nose wrinkle in disgust. “What is ‘done,’ Michael? What exactly have you *done*?” I whispered into the silent kitchen, my voice cracking with disbelief.
I gripped the phone tightly, my knuckles white, the plastic digging into my skin. Every late night, every vague excuse, every time he said he was “handling it” – it all clicked into a sickening, twisted picture. The sound of my own ragged breathing filled the quiet room.
The screen flashed again, a new message from the same number: “She’s asking questions. You need to handle it.”
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*I needed to think. Clear my head. But the accusations, the fear, the betrayal, all swirled inside me like a toxic cocktail. “Handle it?” What did that even mean? My first instinct was to confront him, scream, demand answers. But the cold dread was a stronger force, whispering caution. I needed to know more.
I carefully copied the number from “JS” into my own phone and deleted it from his. I then tucked the old phone back in the drawer, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in my brow and regain some semblance of composure before Michael came home.
That evening, I felt like an imposter, sitting across from Michael at the dinner table. He looked tired, a little drawn, but otherwise perfectly normal. He talked about his therapy session, the progress he was making, and I forced myself to nod and smile, playing the role of the supportive partner. The whole time, the weight of the phone in my purse felt like a lead brick.
Later, while he was in the shower, I slipped out. I drove to a nearby park, a place with wi-fi, and ran the number through an online search. The results were vague, a burner phone associated with a series of prepaid cards. A dead end.
Frustrated, I decided to take a risk. I texted the number: “Who is asking questions? What ‘package’ are you talking about?”
The reply was instant and chilling: “Wrong number.”
But I knew it wasn’t.
That night, sleep eluded me. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside the window, sounded like a threat. I tossed and turned, replaying the messages in my mind, trying to decipher their meaning.
The next day, I decided to follow him. He said he was going to his therapy appointment. I stayed a discreet distance behind, my heart pounding in my chest. He didn’t go to the therapist’s office. Instead, he drove to a rundown part of town and parked near the river. The bridge.
My blood ran cold.
I watched as he met a woman, a woman with fiery red hair and a hard look in her eyes. They spoke in hushed tones, their faces tight with tension. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the tension was palpable. After a few minutes, Michael handed her a small, nondescript package.
That’s when I decided to act. I walked towards them, my steps deliberate, my voice calm but firm. “Michael,” I said, my voice cutting through the air.
He spun around, his face draining of color. The woman, “JS,” turned as well, her eyes narrowed and calculating.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my gaze unwavering. “What’s in the package?”
Michael stammered, trying to find the right words, but I cut him off. “Don’t lie to me, Michael. I know everything.”
He looked defeated, his shoulders slumping. “It’s…it’s medicine,” he finally confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “My mom…she’s sick. Really sick. And she needs a medicine that’s not approved yet. This woman… she helps me get it.”
Relief washed over me, so intense that my knees almost buckled. The weight in my chest lifted, replaced by a wave of shame. I had jumped to the worst possible conclusion, letting my insecurities and fears run wild.
He continued, “I didn’t want to tell you because…because it’s illegal. And I was afraid you’d be angry, that you wouldn’t understand. Therapy is helping me deal with my anxiety and also with the guilt I am carrying for what I am doing for my mom. But there is so much risk involved for her health, that I am willing to carry all those feelings.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I had been so quick to suspect the worst, so blinded by fear that I couldn’t see the truth. I turned to the woman, “JS,” and offered a shaky smile. “Thank you,” I said. “For helping him.”
Michael took my hand, his grip tight. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I should have trusted you. I promise, no more secrets.”
We walked away from the bridge, hand in hand. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that danced around us. It wasn’t a perfect ending. The situation with his mother was still precarious, and the illegal activity was still a risk. But it was a start. A new beginning built on honesty and trust, a chance to rebuild what had almost been destroyed by fear and suspicion. And I knew, with a certainty that warmed me from the inside out, that we could face anything, as long as we faced it together.