My husband had been hiding one, too.
But I didn’t discover that until much later.
My name is Sarah. I was thirty-five years old, married to Tom, a forty-two-year-old real estate developer who had built a comfortable life for us through years of hard work, long hours, and carefully calculated risks.
We lived in a beautiful house with a spacious kitchen, a swimming pool, and a backyard garden where I practiced yoga most mornings. I taught yoga at a local studio, kept myself busy with classes, and enjoyed the quiet stability Tom and I had created.
From the outside, we looked like the kind of couple who had figured everything out.
Five years of marriage. A beautiful home. Successful careers. Weekend dinners at expensive restaurants. Vacations planned months in advance.
Our friends often told us how lucky we were.
I used to believe them.
Then Jake came to stay with us.
