Location 317.
The next morning, I went to the warehouse.
When I opened the location, everything looked surprisingly normal at first glance—shelves with plastic containers, a folding table, a few books and photos.
But when I opened the first box, my hands started shaking.
Inside were children’s drawings.
In one of them, a man was holding a little girl’s hand.
At the bottom, written in crayon, was the inscription:
“For Dad. See you Thursday.”
Thursday.
For decades, Thomas had told me he worked late every Thursday evening.
In another box was a land register—his handwriting filled page after page, documenting monthly payments going back 31 years.
There was also a deed to an apartment he’d bought cash just forty minutes away.
Slowly, painfully, I realized the truth.
My husband had been supporting another family.
For over three decades.
Thomas was leading a double life.
As I stood there, trying to take it all in, voices suddenly rang out behind me.
Two women stood at the entrance to the storage unit.
One was about 55. The other looked to be in her early thirties.
The older woman looked at me intently.
“You must be Margaret,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “And you’re his mistress.”
She looked shocked. “Mistress? Thomas told me you’d been separated for years—that you were only married for appearances.”
My heart sank.
