For five years straight, I watched my husband pack his bags and head off on “annual recharge trips.” That’s what he called them. Just a few days alone every summer—“mental reset,” “no distractions,” “just peace,” blah blah blah. I never complained. Not once. I stayed back, held down the fort, worked double shifts when needed, kept the house running. I figured, hey, if he comes back a better version of himself, maybe it’s worth it.

But last year, something snapped. I asked if I could join him—just casually—and he straight up said no. “You wouldn’t like it,” he told me. “It’s not your kind of thing.”

That line stuck in my chest.

So this year, I did something I’d never done before. I requested a full week off, booked a quiet Airbnb by the coast, and left him a note on the fridge: Taking some peace and quiet too. Don’t wait up.

He didn’t text me for the first two days. That’s when I knew something was off.

On the third day, I finally logged into the shared Google account he forgot he synced years ago. It had travel confirmations. Same places, same dates… but not always solo. Hotel reservations under two names. Dinner spots that required reservations for couples. A few candid photos uploaded by mistake.

I was sitting on a beach with a mimosa in my hand when I made a decision. I wasn’t going to call him. Not yet. I had five more days left on my vacation, and I wasn’t about to let him ruin them too.

But I did call someone else.

Not family. Not a friend.