What Does My Husband Do on Thursday Nights?

“Are you sure you’ll be home late again tonight, Greg?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but the tremor betrayed me. He barely looked up from his phone, slipping his tie on with practiced indifference. “Yeah, hon. Thursday team meetings always run long. You know how it is.” He pecked my cheek without meeting my eye, grabbed his laptop bag, and vanished out the door.

I stood frozen in the kitchen, clutching the plain envelope that had turned my world to ash. It arrived two weeks ago, no return address, my name written in block letters—SARAH EVANS. Inside, a single line: “Do you really know what Greg does on Thursday nights?” At first I laughed, tossing it aside as a mean joke. But every Thursday since, Greg came home later, and his excuses grew thinner. The letter burrowed into my mind, gnawing at my sanity.

That night, I set the table for two as always, though I knew the second plate would go cold. Our daughter, Maddie, FaceTimed from college in Ohio. I forced a smile for her sake. “Hey, Mom! Dad at work again?” she asked, eyes flicking with concern. “Yeah, sweetheart. You know him. Always working,” I replied, voice tight.

I spent hours replaying every conversation, every Thursday over fifteen years. Had I missed something? Was I blind? Or was I so desperate to keep our family together that I ignored the signs?

By midnight, Greg still wasn’t home. I sat in our dark living room, phone clutched to my chest, numb and sleepless. The next morning, I confronted him. “Greg, are you seeing someone else?” The words hung between us like a blade. He stared at me, shocked, then angry. “Where’s this coming from, Sarah? You know I’d never—”

“Don’t lie to me. Please. I need the truth.”

He stormed out, and for days, we barely spoke. The silence between us was heavy, suffocating. I found myself watching him—how he avoided my gaze, how his phone never left his side. One Thursday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I followed him. My heart hammered as I drove through the rain, taillights flickering ahead. Greg parked outside an old brick building downtown, not the office.

I waited, hands shaking, and watched him disappear inside. Half an hour later, I crept to the window. The blinds were cracked just enough. Greg stood inside a circle of folding chairs, speaking to a small group of men and women. His face was open, raw in a way I’d never seen. I heard fragments—”Hi, my name is Greg, and I’m an alcoholic.” My knees buckled.

It all made sense—the secret meetings, the odd behavior, the exhaustion. The late nights weren’t affairs, but AA meetings. My relief was tangled up in shame. How had I not known? Why didn’t he tell me? Didn’t he trust me?

When Greg came home that night, I waited in the kitchen, the anonymous letter trembling in my hand. “I followed you,” I whispered. “I saw everything.”

His shoulders slumped. Tears glittered in his eyes. “I wanted to fix it myself. I didn’t want you to see me like that. I was afraid I’d lose you.”

We talked all night—about his drinking, his shame, his fear. About my loneliness, my anger, the letter that started it all. For the first time in years, we were honest. We cried, we yelled, we forgave. Greg promised no more secrets. I promised to try and trust him again.

But the truth is, the doubts never fully left me. Every Thursday, I relived those weeks of terror, the feeling that I could lose everything in a heartbeat. We went to counseling. We talked to Maddie. We tried to build something new out of the ruins.

Sometimes I wonder: If I’d never received that letter, would Greg have told me? Would I have found the courage to ask? Or would we still be living side by side, strangers in our own home? Can trust ever really be rebuilt after it’s been shattered?

What would you have done if you were me? Is it better to know the hard truth, or live in comforting ignorance?