I thought my marriage was solid—until I came home early one night and found my husband Tom in the basement, scrubbing a dark stain with bleach. A rolled-up rug and a trash bag sat nearby like secrets.

He jumped when I called his name. “Spilled wine,” he said too quickly. The next morning, the basement door was locked—something he’d never done.

I found the spare key. Inside the bag: his stained shirt and a woman’s white dress, splattered red. Wine? Maybe. But whose dress?

Our neighbor, Mrs. Talbot, said a young woman in white had entered our house Friday night. She never saw her leave.

Tom claimed it was Claire, a colleague. Said they drank wine, spilled it, cleaned it up. Claire confirmed everything over dinner—apologetic, polished.

Still, something felt wrong.

I told Tom, “If this happens again—anything that shakes my trust—it’s over.”

He nodded.

But that night, I lay awake beside him, knowing:

Trust doesn’t shatter all at once.

It unravels.

And mine was already threadbare.