Episode 1

It started like any other ordinary morning. The smell of coffee filled our small apartment, sunlight slipped through the blinds, and my wife, Aisha, hummed softly as she dressed for work. She looked stunning as always — neat bun, light perfume, her ID card hanging from her neck like a badge of pride. I loved watching her get ready; it reminded me of how lucky I was. We had been married for three years, and though things weren’t perfect, I thought we were happy. But that morning, something small, almost insignificant, caught my attention. As she picked up her handbag, a small foil pack slipped from her purse and fell to the floor. I bent down to pick it up, smiling — until I realized what it was. A condom. Not one, but two. I froze.

“Aisha,” I said quietly, “why do you have these?”

She turned, her face unreadable for a moment before she forced a laugh. “Oh, those? I picked them up at the pharmacy near my office yesterday. The clinic was giving them out for free. I thought I’d keep them — you know, just in case.”

“In case of what?” I asked, still holding the packet.

She smiled faintly, walked over, kissed my cheek, and said, “In case we ever need them.” Then she left before I could say another word.

That was the first time I noticed her buying condoms. But it wasn’t the last.

Over the next few weeks, I began to see a pattern. Every Monday and Thursday morning, she would stop by the pharmacy down the street before heading to work. At first, I tried to ignore it. I told myself she was stocking up, maybe for us. But then I realized something — we hadn’t made love in nearly a month. Every night, she came home tired, saying she had overtime or “female cramps.” She’d shower, eat a little, and go straight to bed facing the wall.

One evening, my friend Idris dropped by unexpectedly. While we chatted in the living room, he paused and looked at the table. “Bro, you guys use these?” he asked, pointing at a small box half-hidden behind a vase. It was another pack of condoms — new, unopened.

I swallowed hard and said, “Aisha bought them.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure she’s buying them for you?”

That question haunted me all night.

The next morning, I decided to follow her. I waited until she left, then took a bike and trailed her quietly. True to routine, she stopped at the pharmacy, came out with a small brown bag, and continued walking — but instead of turning right toward her office, she crossed the street and entered a hotel.

My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. I stood there watching from a distance, my heart pounding so loud I thought people could hear it. She disappeared into the lobby, and for the next hour, I stood there like a ghost, hoping she’d walk out alone. She didn’t.

When she finally emerged, she was laughing, her hand brushing against a man’s arm. I recognized him immediately — her boss, Mr. Nathan. I had met him once at her company dinner, a man in his early 40s with a wedding ring and a polished smile that hid too much charm.

I felt my knees go weak. The world around me blurred. I didn’t confront her that day. I followed her home, pretending I hadn’t seen anything. She greeted me with a tired smile, kissed me, and said, “Long day at work, babe.” I forced a nod, staring at her as she unpacked her bag — and there, tucked between her files, was the same brown pharmacy bag.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My chest felt heavy, my mind spinning with questions. Why? Why him? What did he give her that I couldn’t?

The next morning, she woke up before me as usual. As she dressed, I watched silently. “Aisha,” I finally said, my voice trembling, “do you love me?”

She froze. Then smiled. “Of course, I do. Why would you ask that?”

I looked her in the eye and whispered, “Because I think you’ve forgotten what love looks like.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then walked out without another word.

That was the day I decided to find out the full truth — not just who she was seeing, but why. Because deep down, something told me this wasn’t just about cheating. Something darker was hiding behind her smile, something even she might not be able to explain.

And what I would discover next would change everything I thought I knew about my wife — and about love itself.

Episode 2

That night, I couldn’t shake the image of Aisha and her boss walking out of that hotel, laughing like two lovers in a secret world I was never invited to. My pillow smelled like her perfume, and I hated it. Every part of me wanted to scream, to demand answers, but something inside whispered wait. I needed proof — not assumptions. I needed to know why.

The next day, I left work early and parked outside her office, far enough not to be noticed. Hours passed, and then I saw her — stepping out of the building, clutching the same brown pharmacy bag. She looked around cautiously before heading toward the same hotel again. My stomach turned. I followed from a distance, rain drizzling down, thunder rumbling in the distance.

When she disappeared inside, I waited five minutes before walking in. The receptionist looked up. “Good evening, sir. Room or guest?” she asked. My throat went dry. “I’m… looking for my wife,” I said quietly. The receptionist’s smile faltered. “Name?” “Aisha… Aisha Bello.”

She hesitated before lowering her voice. “Sir, I’m not supposed to say this, but she’s been coming here regularly. Room 209.” My heart dropped. I slipped her some cash and took the elevator, every second pounding in my chest like a hammer. When I reached the door, I froze — voices. Hers. And a man’s. I leaned closer, trembling.

“Aisha, you can’t keep doing this,” the man said, his tone sharp. “You’re risking your marriage.”

“I know,” she sobbed. “But I need the money, Nathan. Please. Just a few more times. My mother’s treatment is getting worse, and if I stop now, she’ll die. You promised to help.”

Nathan sighed. “You don’t have to sell yourself for this. I can pay her bills without…”

“No,” she cut in. “You wouldn’t help if I wasn’t giving you what you wanted. Don’t lie to me.”

I felt my knees weaken. My wife — my Aisha — wasn’t cheating for love. She was trading herself to save her sick mother. I backed away from the door, tears burning my eyes. My anger twisted into something uglier — guilt. Shame. I remembered how many times I’d told her we couldn’t afford more hospital bills, how I’d ignored her tears when she begged me to borrow from my savings.

Now I understood. She had found another way — a way that destroyed her from the inside.

I stumbled down the hallway, unable to breathe. I drove aimlessly through the rain until midnight, the wipers struggling to keep up with my tears. When I finally got home, she was already there, pretending to be asleep. I sat beside her, studying her face — the same woman who had once danced barefoot in our kitchen, who had prayed with me when life was hard.

Around 2 a.m., she stirred and whispered, “Why are you awake?”

I swallowed hard. “Aisha… if I told you I knew everything, what would you say?”

She froze. Then, without turning, she whispered, “I’d say… I’m sorry. And that I hate myself more than you ever could.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks silently. I reached out to touch her shoulder, but she flinched away. “Don’t,” she whispered. “You deserve better.”

The room fell quiet except for her quiet sobs. I wanted to tell her I understood, that I forgave her, but the words stuck in my throat. How do you forgive someone who broke your heart to save another’s life?

The next morning, I went to her mother’s hospital. The nurse at the front desk looked surprised. “You’re Aisha’s husband?” she asked. I nodded. “She’s here almost every evening. Pays cash for her mother’s dialysis. Without her, the woman would’ve died months ago.”

I felt something heavy collapse inside me. My wife wasn’t a monster — she was a soldier.

That evening, I didn’t confront her. I cooked dinner, lit a candle, and waited. When she came in, surprised by the sight, she stared at me. “What’s all this?”

I smiled weakly. “Just dinner. For my wife.”

She looked suspicious but sat down. We ate in silence until she whispered, “Why are you being nice to me?”

I looked her in the eyes. “Because I finally understand why you always buy condoms on your way to work.”

She froze, tears spilling again. “Then you know I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” I said softly. “But we both got lost trying to survive.”

She reached across the table, trembling. “Do you still love me?”

I smiled sadly. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.

EPISODE 3

The morning after our dinner, I thought maybe — just maybe — Aisha and I could find our way back to each other. We weren’t perfect, but love still lived somewhere in the ruins. She smiled at me for the first time in weeks before leaving for work, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace. But peace has a way of shattering just when you start to believe in it.

By noon, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was my friend Idris. “Akin, you need to come to your wife’s office. Now!” His voice was trembling. “What happened?” I asked, already reaching for my keys. “Her boss’s wife—she’s here. She found out everything.”

My heart sank. I rushed to the company and saw a small crowd gathered near the entrance. People were recording with their phones. In the middle of the chaos was Aisha, on her knees, crying, while a furious woman screamed and slapped her repeatedly. “You cheap snake! You think you can steal my husband and ruin my family?!” she yelled. “You’ll pay for this, you homewrecker!”

I ran forward and pulled the woman back. “Enough! Don’t touch her!” I shouted. Security guards rushed in, separating them. Cameras kept flashing. Someone whispered, “That’s her husband,” and suddenly, every eye turned to me.

Aisha clung to me, sobbing. “Akin, please, let’s go.” Her voice broke. “It’s not what she thinks.”

But Mrs. Nathan wasn’t done. She sneered, “Oh, it’s exactly what I think. You think I didn’t see the hotel receipts? You think I don’t have photos? Your wife has been sleeping with my husband for months — and I have proof!” She pulled out her phone and threw it at me. On the screen were pictures — of Aisha and Nathan entering the hotel, holding hands, sitting at a table too close, too familiar.

The crowd gasped. My body went cold. I wanted to believe there was more to it, that the photos didn’t tell the full story, but the world doesn’t care about the truth. It only cares about the spectacle.

By the time we got home, Aisha was shaking uncontrollably. “Akin, please, I swear, I ended everything with him. I only went there for my mother’s bills, I swear—”

“I know,” I whispered, cutting her off. “I know why you did it.”

She stared at me, stunned. “You… you still believe me?”

“I don’t believe what they said,” I said quietly. “But I don’t know if I believe in us anymore.”

She broke down completely. “I hate myself, Akin. Every time I looked at you, I felt like dying. But I couldn’t let Mama die too.” She fell to the floor, sobbing so hard it hurt to hear. “Please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. Please.”

I sat beside her, my chest heavy. “I already lost you the day you stopped telling me the truth,” I said. “I just didn’t know it yet.”

For days, the scandal spread online. Her boss was suspended. His wife filed for divorce. Aisha quit her job and refused to go outside. Our neighbors whispered, our friends avoided us. The shame was suffocating.

One night, I woke up to find her standing by the window, staring into the dark. “Aisha?” I called softly. She turned, tears glistening in her eyes. “Do you think I’m a bad person?” she asked.

I stood up and walked to her. “No,” I said after a long silence. “I think you’re someone who made a terrible choice out of love. And love can be cruel like that.”

She hugged me tightly, sobbing into my chest. For the first time, I held her without anger — just sadness.

The next morning, I woke up alone. Her clothes were gone. Her side of the closet was empty. On the table was a letter, folded neatly beside her wedding ring. My hands trembled as I opened it.

> “My love,
If you’re reading this, it means I finally did the right thing — I set you free. You were always too kind for someone like me. I broke every vow I made to you, and no matter how much you forgive me, I can’t forgive myself. Mama’s treatment is complete now. She’s alive because of the mistakes I made, but I’ve died a thousand times inside.
Please don’t come looking for me. I need to start over, far away from the shame I caused you. Thank you for loving me even when I didn’t deserve it.
— Aisha”

The paper was soaked before I even realized I was crying. She didn’t take anything — not her phone, not her savings. Just the letter and her guilt.

Months passed. I moved to another city, trying to rebuild. One rainy evening, as I stopped by a small clinic to donate blood, a nurse smiled at me and said, “You’re just in time. The woman who runs this place will be so happy. She started this foundation to help women who can’t afford medical care.”

When she came out of the office, my heart stopped. It was Aisha. Thinner, calmer, but still the same woman I once knew. Our eyes met, and time froze. She smiled faintly. “Hi, Akin.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You look… happy.”

She nodded. “I finally am.”

We didn’t say much else. I donated the blood, signed the form, and as I turned to leave, she whispered, “Thank you — for letting me go when I couldn’t let myself.”

That night, I realized something: love doesn’t always end with hate. Sometimes, it ends with peace — and the bittersweet memory of what once was.

THE END