My boyfriend is Spanish, and I secretly started learning the language to surprise him.
Today, he got a call from his mom and began chatting away in Spanish, assuming I couldn’t understand a word. But what I heard left me speechless.
He said, “Here’s the plan. I’ll keep pretending I haven’t found a job here yet, so she won’t suspect anything. Once the money comes in, I’ll tell her everything.”
I froze. Money? A secret plan? Who was she? My heart pounded, but I forced myself to keep it together. When he hung up, he turned to me with his usual loving smile and kissed my forehead like nothing had happened.
I didn’t confront him. Not right away.
That night, my thoughts ran wild. Was he talking about me? Was I being used? Was this part of some shady deal? Or did he have debts he’d never mentioned?
By morning, I knew I had to get to the bottom of it. Quietly.
Over breakfast, I asked casually, “So, any news on job applications?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Still nothing, cariño. The job market’s brutal.”
A lie. I knew he had an offer from a firm downtown. I’d seen the email on his laptop when he accidentally left it open.
That confirmed it—he was definitely hiding something.
A few days later, while he was out, I did something I’m not proud of. I searched his drawer. Inside was a folder full of documents—bank records, contracts, legal forms. It was all related to a real estate deal in Barcelona. He was about to receive a major commission from a property investment.
But one note stood out: “Once we get the funds, explain everything to M.”
M. That was me.
Now I didn’t know what to think. Was he planning a surprise? Or was he covering his tracks?
That evening, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Lorenzo,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, “Can we talk for a second?”
He looked up, instantly sensing something was off. “Sure. What is it?”
“Just be honest with me. Is there something you’re not telling me? About your job? About money?”
His expression shifted. “Why would you ask that?”
I took a deep breath. “Because I understand Spanish. I’ve been learning it. And I heard what you said on the phone with your mom.”
He went pale. He looked cornered, caught.
After a long pause, he said quietly, “Okay. I wasn’t ready to tell you yet because… I was planning a surprise.”
“A surprise?” I asked, folding my arms.
He reached for my hand. “Yes. I’ve been working with my cousin back in Barcelona. We’ve been investing in a property together. It’s finally about to pay off. I wanted to use my part of the commission to make a down payment on a house—for us.”
A house?
I stared at him. “But why lie? Why say you didn’t have a job?”
“I wanted to make it perfect. I thought if I told you early, you’d worry about the risk, or think I was making reckless choices. I just didn’t want to stress you out.”
I felt tears sting my eyes. I wasn’t angry anymore—but I was hurt. He could’ve trusted me. We were supposed to be partners.
“I love you, Lorenzo,” I said quietly. “But relationships don’t work without honesty. You can’t protect me by keeping secrets.”
He nodded, his voice soft. “I know. You’re right. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I see now I was wrong.”
We sat quietly for a while. Then he squeezed my hand and said, “No more secrets, okay? We’re in this together.”
I gave him a faint smile. “Deal.”
Six months later, we were standing in front of a cozy little house on the outskirts of town. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was ours. The result of his risky investment—and our promise to be honest with each other.
Looking back, I realize how fear can make people do the wrong thing for the right reasons. But in the end, communication always wins over silence. Lorenzo and I still have our moments, but we learned something priceless: secrets hurt more than the truth ever could.
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