My husband works five days a week. But he only showers on the weekends.
I’ve told him he smells — gently at first, then with frustration, even desperation. “I’m too tired after work,” he always says with a shrug. He works at a packaging plant, and I get it — the labor is exhausting. But tiredness doesn’t explain the stink of sweat and machinery that clings to him every single evening. It’s beyond tired. It’s something else.
Last night, something shifted. He came home later than usual, jittery, avoiding eye contact. When I asked if he was okay, he just muttered, “Long day, babe,” and splashed water on his face — no shower, as usual.
But when he took off his shirt before bed, something caught my eye.
There was a strange mark near the collar — not just dirt. Dark, rusty… almost like dried blood. And the smell? It wasn’t just sweat anymore. It was sour. Rotten. It hit me so hard I had to look away.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He glanced at it and shrugged, too fast. “Grease. From the new conveyor belts. They’ve been leaking.”
It sounded too rehearsed. Too clean.
The next morning, while he was out in the garage, I checked the laundry — all his work shirts were there. Except that one. I searched the washer. Nothing. Then I peeked into the garage.
He was hunched over the sink, scrubbing that shirt with dish soap and a toothbrush. My breath caught.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He jumped. “It’s nothing. Just trying to keep it from staining.”
Since when did he care about stains?
That afternoon, while he was at work, I drove to his job. Something I hadn’t done in years.
I parked across the street and waited. After a while, I saw him — but instead of heading inside, he climbed into another car. A woman’s car. She was wearing the same uniform. Short, dark hair. Familiar. They talked for a while. She touched his arm. They laughed. And then… he leaned in. Not quite a kiss. But close. Too close.
I didn’t confront him. Not that night. Or the next.
Instead, I watched.
And over the next few days, I saw it again. Her car. Their closeness. My mind spun with suspicion, fear, betrayal.
Then, one night, I heard something that shattered me.
Crying. In the garage.
I peeked in and found him on a crate, phone in hand, face in his hands.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
He looked up, eyes red and raw. “It’s Daria,” he said.
The name meant nothing to me.
“She’s my coworker,” he explained. “Her son’s really sick. Leukemia. Stage three. She’s been missing shifts, falling behind on bills. I’ve been driving her, covering extra hours, trying to help. She didn’t ask. I just… couldn’t watch her go through it alone.”
“And the shirt?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He nodded. “Her son had a nosebleed. I carried him into the ER. I didn’t want to explain it. I didn’t want to worry you. I know how it looked… I just didn’t know how to say any of this.”
Tears blurred my vision. “You should’ve told me.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
I sat beside him in silence, no longer furious — just aching.
The next day, I met Daria.
She was kind and quiet. Worn. Her eyes looked like they hadn’t seen sleep in weeks. Her little boy, Ezra, smiled up at me from the couch — frail but radiant.
We brought them groceries that weekend. My husband fixed their sink. I held Ezra while Daria cried in the kitchen.
My anger? It faded.
Today, he showers more often. Not every day, but more. And we talk now — about everything. No more hiding. No more guessing.
Because the truth is, people carry things you can’t always see. And sometimes, what looks like indifference is just buried pain.
So please — ask. Listen. There’s always more to the story.