What She's Hiding

My wife has been acting strange lately, distant.

I notice it most in the morning, when the sunlight pours through the kitchen window, splashing gold across the floorboards. Our son squeals in delight as I bounce him in my arms, his chestnut brown hair catching the light like a halo. Sometimes I look up and see my wife watching us, her eyes quick and uncertain, her lips parted as if she wants to speak but cannot find the words. When our eyes meet, she looks away, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. I wonder when this started—this brittle silence, this careful avoidance.

But then, sometimes, she steps into the light, and I remember all over again why I have loved her since the very first time I saw her. She is beautiful in a way that makes the world itself seem sharper, more vibrant. Her hair, dark and soft, frames her face with a wildness that the city could never tame. Her skin is luminous, her eyes the color of a storm. I marvel at her, even now, even after everything. Sometimes I catch myself staring at her as she moves around the house, the simple grace of her hands as she folds a shirt, tucks a blanket around our son, pours water into a glass. She has always been beautiful, but here, in the woods, she is more than that; she is elemental, untouched.

When I think of our life together, I always start with our first meeting. I was just a boy, awkward and unnoticed, and she was already the center of everything. I remember watching her at school, how the other children seemed to orbit her, drawn by a force I could never name. Even then, she was kindness itself, never cruel, always quick to smile, her laughter ringing out like music. I watched her grow into herself, watched others draw close and fall away, but I never left. I loved her from the very beginning, and I never stopped.

Years later, in the city, I finally found my chance. She was even more beautiful then, more sure of herself, but still gentle, still soft-hearted in a world that tried to roughen her edges. I loved the way she moved through the crowds, how she seemed to bring light with her. People loved her. Everyone wanted her. But it was me she chose, in the end. Or so I tell myself.

She gave birth in the city, in a small room filled with morning light, the curtains billowing gently with each passing breeze. I remember the way the sun played across her face, picking out strands of her hair and turning them to gold. Even after all the exhaustion and pain, she was radiant—her beauty undiminished, even heightened by the fierce tenderness in her eyes as she cradled her son for the first time. I stood at her side, watching her, in awe of the quiet strength she showed.

Those early days were a blur of wonder and gentle chaos. Our son was impossibly small, his hands curling around her finger, his breath warm against her skin. I remember the sound of her voice as she sang to him at night, soft and lilting, a lullaby just for him. I watched her move through the apartment, her hair loose, her eyes bright even in the long hours of wakefulness. Every gesture, every sigh, seemed to me a miracle. I found myself loving her more with each passing day, struck by her beauty in every light, every mood, every quiet moment they shared. It was then I realized it was time for us to begin the life I had always hoped for: the three of us, together, a family at last.

Not long after, I made things official, though not in any grand way. There was no big wedding, no white dress or gathering of friends and family, just a simple exchange between the two of us. We stood close, hands entwined, our son sleeping nearby, and promised each other a future. There was no veil, just her hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with emotion, tears sparkling in her eyes and in mine. The world felt hushed and new, as if holding its breath for us. I remember thinking that nothing could ever come between us, that I would spend my life keeping her safe and happy.

But the city was never truly home. The constant hum of traffic, the crowded sidewalks, the relentless buzz of phones and voices; none of it seemed to fit the life we wanted. I could see the way it wore on her, how she shrank from the noise and bright lights, how the endless stream of messages and visits seemed to weigh her down. She was always at her most beautiful in the quiet moments and early mornings with our son asleep on her chest, late evenings when she watched the city lights flicker far below. I wanted more of that peace for her, for all of us.

So we decided to leave it behind. I packed our lives into boxes, leaving behind the echo of sirens and the press of strangers, and traded it all for the gentle hush of the woods. Our new home was small but filled with light, the windows framing the endless green of the pines. I loved watching her explore those first days, her curiosity leading her through the moss and wildflowers, our son tucked against her in a soft sling. The air was so clean out here, and in the evenings, the three of us would sit by the fire, the world falling away outside our circle of warmth.

We agreed that this would be a different kind of life, no cellphones or screens to tug us back toward the world we’d left behind. No more chasing messages or likes, no more comparing ourselves to others. Just us, our son, the wind in the trees, and the soft glow of lamplight at night. The only exception was my work laptop, which I insisted was necessary, though I promised to keep it tucked away unless I absolutely needed it. She didn’t seem too pleased, but she understood. Sometimes I’d see her glance at it, her expression unreadable, but she never said anything. I told her it was just for work, so we could build something meaningful together out here—something real, away from all the noise and clutter of city life.

Most days, I would wake before dawn and watch her sleep, the early light touching her hair, her face perfectly peaceful. Sometimes I’d trace the line of her cheek with my eyes, memorizing every feature. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever known—more beautiful, perhaps, for all we’d been through. And when she smiled at our son, when she laughed softly at something he did, it was as if the whole house brightened. Even in the quiet, even in her silences, I loved her more than I ever thought possible.

But lately, I have sensed something different in her, something I cannot quite name. There is a distance, a quiet tension that hangs in the air between us even on the gentlest mornings. I tell myself it is nothing, that every couple has their shadows after a child, but I cannot ignore the way she sometimes looks past me, as if listening for a voice I cannot hear. Sometimes I wonder if she is thinking of someone else, if some part of her heart is still wandering the city streets we left behind. I try to brush the thought away and remind myself how much we have built together, but the worry lingers at the edges of my mind, impossible to dispel.

There are small things that feed my unease. Sometimes, when I enter a room, I find her standing very still, as if caught in the middle of a thought she does not want to share. I will notice her hands trembling as she folds laundry, or see her staring out the window for long stretches, her expression far away. She keeps to herself more than she used to, moving quietly through the house, avoiding my eyes. On certain afternoons, she seems almost restless, drifting from room to room, glancing toward the path that leads back to the world we left behind. I tell myself it is only natural to miss familiar things, familiar faces, but now and then I wonder if there is someone she wishes she could see again, someone whose memory she holds close.

Sometimes I catch her glancing at the laptop, her eyes lingering as if she’s remembering something far away. I remind her gently that it’s not for conversation, not for reaching back into the world we left behind. She nods, but her eyes don’t quite meet mine.

I tell myself we are happy here. I tell myself I have given her everything she needs.

But sometimes, I notice the tension in her shoulders, the way her laughter has grown rare. She moves around the house like a ghost, careful and silent. When I reach for her, she flinches, a tiny movement that I pretend not to see. She rarely speaks unless spoken to, and then her answers are clipped, her voice flat. At night, she lies beside me but never touches me, her back a curve of distance.

I try to understand. Maybe it’s the baby, I tell myself. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the relentless cycle of feeding and soothing and waking in the dark. Maybe it’s the postpartum sadness that mothers talk about in hushed voices, afraid to admit their hearts have turned heavy. I try to be patient, to let her come back to me in her own time.

Yet, I cannot help but notice the way she watches the window, as if she’s waiting for something. Sometimes, after I return from town, I find her flushed and distracted, her hands shaking as she sets the table. She claims it’s nothing, just nerves, but I wonder what passes through her mind when I am gone.

Still, I try to bring her back to me. One night, after our son has finally fallen asleep, I lean against the doorframe and watch her folding laundry. The lamplight softens her face, makes her hair gleam.

“Remember that red thing I gave you before?” I tease, letting my voice go gentle, coaxing. “You should put it on tonight. Just for me.”

She stops, the cloth slipping from her hands. For a moment, she is utterly still. Then she turns away, her voice small. “I’m tired.”

Disappointment tightens in my chest, but I swallow it down. I don’t want to push her. I tell myself it’s just a phase, that her body and heart are still healing. I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but she pulls away, murmuring something about needing to check on our son.

I watch her go, the curve of her back, the delicate line of her neck. She is so beautiful it almost hurts. I would do anything for her. I have done everything for her.

The days pass in a haze of routine. I work at my laptop in the mornings, the world reduced to numbers and screens. My wife moves quietly through the house, tending to our son, cleaning, cooking. Sometimes I catch her watching me, her eyes dark and unreadable. If I smile, she looks away.

She never asks to go into town, never mentions the city or her old friends. When I suggest we take a walk together, she hesitates, then declines. “You go ahead,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll stay with our son.” It’s as if she’s shrinking, becoming smaller every day.

One evening, I find her standing in the hallway, staring at the locked drawer where I keep the car keys. She jumps when I speak her name.

“I was just looking for a pen,” she says, her voice trembling.

I nod, pretending to believe her. I want to trust her. I want to believe that she is content, that she is safe. But doubt creeps in, slow and insidious. I start to notice things I had ignored before—the way she stands too close to the door when I leave for town, the way she lingers at the window, watching the road, her hands pressed to the glass.

Sometimes I wake in the darkness and find her sitting up in bed, staring out into the night. I reach for her, but she stiffens beneath my hand. “I just need some air,” she whispers.

I try to be gentle, to give her space. But I can’t help feeling that something is slipping away from me, something precious and fragile.

One night, I wake to the sound of footsteps. The house is quiet, save for the creak of floorboards. I slide out of bed, careful not to wake our son. In the dim hall, I see her crouched by the locked drawer, her fingers fumbling with the key.

I step closer, my voice soft. “What are you doing?”

She startles, eyes wide, hands shaking. “I—I just wanted to go for a drive. To clear my head.”

I smile, trying to keep the edge from my voice. “It’s late. Let me take you tomorrow, after breakfast. You don’t need to go alone.”

She hesitates, shoulders slumped. For a moment, I think she might argue. But then she nods, defeated. She follows me back to bed, her steps slow, her face turned away.

After that, the distance between us grows. She barely speaks, barely eats. I watch her, searching for some sign that she still loves me, that she is still mine. She avoids my gaze, pulls away when I touch her. Sometimes I catch her crying in the garden, her face hidden in her hands.

But she is still beautiful, even then. Her sadness only makes her more precious, more delicate. I want to gather her up, hold her close, protect her from whatever darkness has found its way into her heart.

One afternoon, as I work at the kitchen table, I hear the soft scratch of pen on paper. I glance up and see her hunched over a notebook, her hair falling forward, hiding her face. She looks up, startled, when she realizes I’m watching. She snaps the notebook shut, cradling it to her chest.

“What are you writing?” I ask, forcing myself to sound casual.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Just notes. A list.”

I give her a nod, but suspicion gnaws at me long after. Later, while she is outside with our son, I begin to search the house. Every drawer, every cupboard, every shadowed corner. At last, I find a notebook wedged beneath a loose floorboard. My hands tremble as I pull it free and open it.

Her words leap from the page, sharp and desperate, cutting through me. My chest tightens. For a moment, everything in the room feels cold and distant. Then the rage surges up, hot and overwhelming. The paper shakes in my grip, crumpling as I clutch it.

When she returns, I am waiting in the doorway. She freezes, her eyes darting to the notebook in my hand. All the color drains from her face.

“Who are you writing to?” My voice is barely steady. “How long have you been hiding this? Why are you lying to me?”

She tries to speak, but only silence answers. Tears slide down her cheeks, her whole body trembling.

I look down at the page, forcing myself to read her words aloud. “Please, if anyone finds this, help me. My name is Sarah Dalton. I was taken by Mark Rowan on June 23, 2025. He won’t let me leave. I’m scared. My son is scared. I need to get away. Please.”

The words are acid in my mouth. I rip the letter to pieces, the fragments falling between us.

“I have always loved you,” I say, the words tumbling out, sharp and desperate. “Always. Even when you didn’t love me. Even when you were with someone else. Even when you married him, when you had his child—I forgave you. I brought you here to save you, to protect you from those people who used you up, who wanted to take you away from me. I thought you understood that.”

She sinks to her knees, sobbing. I want to reach for her, but my hands are shaking.

“I did this for you,” I say, my voice rising. “For us. I gave you everything. I forgave everything. And this is how you thank me? By writing letters, asking for help?”

She doesn’t answer, just curls into herself, shoulders shaking.

I kneel beside her, pulling her into my arms. She tenses, rigid as stone, but I hold her tightly, rocking her.

“It’s all right,” I whisper. “I forgive you. I always will. We’re safe here. No one can hurt you. I won’t let anyone take you away. There, there.”

Her sobs are muffled against my chest. Outside, the wind stirs the trees, whispering secrets. My son cries from his crib, a thin, desperate wail.

I hold her tighter.

We are together. That is all that matters.