08/14/2025
My husband of 21 years, Jordan, said he was driving upstate for a childhood friend's funeral. I didn't question it. I just asked, "Who passed?"
He paused for a beat too long. "Eddie," he said. "From high school. You don't know him. We only talked online now and then. It's not worth the trip for you. I'll be back on Sunday."
I wanted to support him, but he was oddly insistent that I stay behind. He left Saturday morning with a small duffel bag and kissed my cheek like always.
So, on that Saturday, I decided to drive to our country house to check the garden. We hadn't been there in weeks. But when I pulled up, Jordan's car was parked off the gravel path. My stomach dropped.
I called his name inside—silence. Then I saw him behind the tool shed, pouring gasoline on something hidden behind a short fence. His expression was blank. The air reeked of fuel.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" I shouted.
Jordan flinched like I'd shot at him. His eyes were wide—wild.
"N-NOTHING," he stammered. "JUST BURNING SOME WEEDS. LOTTA TICKS BACK HERE. DON'T COME CLOSER."
Then—I swear—he lit a match and tossed it down before I could move.
A whoosh of flame erupted at his feet.
"JORDAN!" I screamed and ran toward the blaze. He stepped in my way, arms out.
"I TOLD YOU, IT'S NOTHING," he said again, but his voice cracked.
I shoved past him.
And what I saw stole the breath from my lungs. It wasn't weeds. ⬇️
