Tow would

That was the beginning of my secret life. From that moment on, I learned how to exist in two different worlds parallel lives that never truly touched, yet tore me apart every day.

In the first world, I was Mrs. Stacy.

Perfect. Polished. Predictable.

I attended church every Sunday, my head bowed, my lips moving in practiced prayers. I hosted elegant dinners where the table settings were flawless and my laughter arrived exactly on cue. I wore beautiful clothes and a smile so carefully maintained it felt stitched to my face. Beside my husband, I played my role well. No one ever suspected the emptiness beneath the surface.

But the second world was where I breathed.

There, I was simply Stacy raw, unguarded, real. And in that world, there was Rebecca.

Rebecca was my helper, at least in the way society understood it. But what she gave me had nothing to do with chores or schedules. With her, the cold hollow inside me softened. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t demand. She listened with her eyes, her presence, her quiet understanding. When she touched me, it wasn’t ownership she offered, but care. I felt seen in a way I never had before.

I stopped sharing a bed with my husband long ago. His presence irritated me, his touch mechanical and distant. I kept my own room my sanctuary where silence wrapped around me and memories of Rebecca lived freely. I still allowed him his marital rights from time to time, brief and empty moments I endured rather than felt. I did it to keep peace, to keep him from straying, to protect the fragile secret that had become my only source of warmth.

Every moment with Rebecca felt like truth. Soft laughter in dim rooms. Lingering looks that said what words couldn’t. I felt beautiful with her. Desired. Alive.

The guilt nearly destroyed me.

I prayed harder than I ever had in my life. I fasted. I begged God to take the feelings away. I promised myself I would stop. But then I would hear Rebecca’s voice calling my name gently, or see her bending over her work, completely unaware of the storm she stirred in me. And every promise I made dissolved.

I knew secrets never stayed buried forever.

I lived in fear fear that my husband would discover everything. Fear of divorce. Of disgrace. Of losing the life I had built, even if it was hollow. I was trapped between passion and preservation, unsure which one would ruin me first.

The truth was painful to admit: I wasn’t sure I wanted to be saved.

Because with Rebecca, I didn’t feel empty.

I felt found.

Then came the evening that shattered everything.

I returned home earlier than expected. The moment I stepped into the living room, my heart stopped. My husband had Rebecca pinned against the couch. Her dress was disordered, her body tense, her face turned away in unmistakable resistance.

A scream ripped out of me before I could stop it.

The image burned into my mind his grip, her fear, the violation of everything sacred between us. Rebecca reacted instantly, shoving him away and breaking into sobs.

“What is this?” I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.

My husband adjusted his shirt, his face hardening. “You’re misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” I laughed, cold and sharp. “I saw you.”

“She’s just a maid!” he shouted, anger rising to mask his guilt.

“How long?” I screamed. “How long has this been happening?”

Rebecca fled to her room, shaking. I followed her, pushing the door open. She sat on the bed, crying uncontrollably.

“The truth,” I said. “Tell me.”

She looked up, tears streaming down her face. “A few months,” she whispered. “He tries when you’re not around. He forces himself. I never wanted it. I swear.”

I believed her without hesitation.

I left the house that night and walked until my feet hurt and the sky grew heavy with darkness. When I returned, the house felt like a tomb silent, suffocating, broken.

Days passed in unbearable quiet.

Eventually, I gathered what little strength I had left. This was my home, and my husband had poisoned it. I called Rebecca to me and dismissed her, my voice steady despite the ache ripping through my chest.

“It’s best for both of us,” I said.

She nodded. She understood. That made it hurt more.

Weeks followed. I tried to fix my marriage. I tried to fix my husband. I sent messages, shared intimacy, opened conversations. He was distant, irritated, unmoved. I spoke. He shut down. Nothing changed.

In my quiet room, alone, my thoughts betrayed me. Every memory, every longing, led back to Rebecca. My husband could not reach me the way she once had. I was lonelier than ever.

A month passed.

I learned Rebecca was living with someone named Kelvin. The thought of seeing her again terrified and tempted me in equal measure. Shame followed me all the way to my car, but silence had become unbearable.

One afternoon, I drove to the address I’d been given. I knew Kelvin would be at work. I knocked.

Once.

Twice.

The door opened.

Rebecca stood there, startled, her eyes widening as recognition settled in.

“Hello, Rebecca,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“I’ve missed you.”

And in that moment, standing between the life I lived and the life I wanted, I knew my two worlds were about to collide again.