PART 1
On my wedding night I saw a woman enter my father’s room, and for several minutes I was convinced that this woman was my own wife.
My name is Brandon Miller. I am 32 years old, and I work repairing heavy construction equipment in a workshop near Grand Rapids, Michigan. My wife, Chloe, is 28 and works as a primary school teacher. We got married on a cool Saturday night in October, after spending almost three years together as a couple. The wedding reception was held right at my parents’ house, which is a massive single-story home with a wide paved yard, a large tool shop, a back kitchen, and several extra bedrooms that my dad built over the years whenever his budget allowed it.
My father, Walter, was 61 years old back then. For decades he worked hard on high-rise construction sites, and later he built a business buying, restoring, and renting out cement mixers, ground tampers, and industrial tools. He was the kind of loud man who dominated every conversation, made choices for everyone around him, and constantly repeated his favorite rule, which was that family problems must always be solved within the family.
My mother, Martha, was 58 years old. She had spent her entire life taking care of the house, managing the large vegetable garden in the back, and keeping track of every single penny that came into our household. She suffered from severe high blood pressure, but despite her health condition, she still woke up before six every morning to brew coffee, cook breakfast, and balance the weekly budget ledger.
The party finally wrapped up around eleven o’clock.
When Chloe and I finally retreated into our bedroom, she sat down on the edge of the mattress and gently pressed her hand against her stomach.
“My period started early,” she told me with an embarrassed expression. “I think all the stress from planning this wedding caused it to come early.”
I leaned over and gave her a gentle hug.
“We just got married today,” I told her softly. “We have our whole lives ahead of us, so do not worry about it.”
I heated up some hot water for her, helped her prepare a warm compress, and the two of us lay in bed chatting until we finally drifted off to sleep.
I woke up at precisely 12:43 AM.
The spot next to me on the bed was completely empty. I initially assumed that Chloe had just stepped out to use the bathroom, but then I caught the distinct sound of a gentle knock coming from the end of the long hallway.
The noise was coming directly from my father’s bedroom.
My parents had been sleeping in separate rooms for over two years. My father always claimed that my mother’s soft mattress hurt his aching back, and he also complained that she received work calls at all hours of the night.
His bedroom door was sitting slightly cracked open.
Through that narrow opening, I could clearly make out the dark silhouette of a woman standing inside. She had long flowing hair, a slim frame, and she was almost the exact same height as Chloe.
I felt my blood run cold in an instant.
Then I heard a muffled groan coming from inside the dark room.
I took a fast step backward into the dark hallway.
I wanted so badly to push that door wide open.
I simply could not bring myself to do it.
I stumbled back to our bedroom with my knees shaking uncontrollably.
Five minutes later, Chloe walked into the room through the side door that connected to the back kitchen. She was holding a damp t-shirt tightly in her hands.
“I went downstairs to wash this shirt,” she whispered to me softly. “It got stained earlier, and I felt terrible just leaving it in the hamper like that.”
I looked her up and down with intense suspicion.
“Did you walk past my dad’s room just now?” I asked her in a tense tone.
Her soft expression changed immediately.
“No, I did not,” she answered with a confused look. “Why are you asking me that?”
“It is nothing,” I murmured, turning away from her.
“Brandon, what is going on with you?” she pressed.
“Nothing at all,” I repeated coldly.
That night, we slept side by side with our backs turned away from each other.
