It rained heavily throughout the afternoon, and the cold breezes lasted as if to warn of something unusual. I came home from work, my shirt was soaked, and my feet were splashed with rainwater all over the alley. My house is located deep in a quiet residential area in Binh Thanh district, Ho Chi Minh City. HCM. The simple and compact two-story house is the result of several years of hard work since the time of marriage.

My wife – Dung – is a gentle, quiet woman. She works as an accountant at an import-export company, her work is regular, and her salary is enough to live on. It has been more than 4 years since we got married, and Dung has never taken the initiative to buy alcohol, let alone forced me to drink.

However, that day, when I had just entered the house, before I had time to change my clothes, she brought out a bottle of red wine, which was quite expensive, and placed it on the wooden table.

“I’ll take a shower and have a drink with you,” Dung said, his eyes strange, both embarrassed and waiting for something.

I was a little surprised, but I didn’t ask anything. Don’t men all dream of having an evening when their wives take the initiative to pour wine, smile and be gentle next to them?

After taking a shower, I went to the table and saw that she had already poured two glasses, the wave wine was red under the yellow light. She drank quite quickly, and I took it slowly, sipping wine while paying attention to my wife’s expression.

After a while, Dung took the initiative to pour more for me. She told miscellaneous stories at the company, about her colleagues, her new boss… But the words are lost, unnatural, as if trying to fill the atmosphere with stories.

I find it strange. Dung is a quiet person, but he doesn’t drink much. Today, she not only drinks, but also drinks quite a lot. Every time I nodded because the alcohol started to seep in, she looked at me closely, as if to check if I was drunk.

I began to be wary. I didn’t know that something was going on behind my back.

So I pretended to be ivory, nodded and said I wanted to go to bed. Dung took me to my room, helped me lie down on the bed like a caring wife. She covered me with a blanket and gently withdrew, leaving the dim nightlight beside me.

I closed my eyes, held my breath, tried to hold my breath steadily. His heart pounded in his chest.

After a while, there was a sound of gentle footsteps down the stairs. I crept up, followed the corridor, hid up the stairs and looked down. Dung didn’t turn off the light downstairs, she was struggling to open the phone, dial the number.

I was silent when I heard every word clearly through that quiet distance:

“Have you arrived?… Yes, he’s drunk, I’m doing exactly as I told him. Hurry up, I can’t stand it anymore…”

I was dumbfounded. He? Brother? Younger sibling?

My throat was dry. How many questions swirled like a whirlwind in his head. Was my wife—that gentle woman who didn’t say much—calling a strange man, in the middle of the night, after trying to get me drunk?

At that time, I didn’t know whether to be angry or afraid. I went back to my room, my heart pounding, sweating profusely even though it was raining cold. Trying to stay calm, I opened the closet, grabbed my phone, turned on the recording mode, and then went back to the stairs.

I crept in, trying not to make a noise, gripped the phone tightly, and continued to record her calls. Dung’s voice whispered, but every word was like a knife:

“I left the red book in my bag. You came, and then I went. I can’t live with him anymore, I can’t even live for a day…”

I suddenly saw the sky sink over my head.

I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall, my whole body trembling. In front of me was a fact that I had never dared to think about: My wife was plotting to run away with another man. Worse, she planned to take the red book with her, the couple’s biggest asset.

The feeling was both numb and bewildered. In my mind I repeated the question: “Why? What did I do wrong?”

I’m not a bad husband. I don’t drink, I don’t gamble, I come home from work on time, my salary is not high, but I can afford to spend, sometimes I even give her more money to take care of the house. Since the day I got married, I think I have lived a decent and decent life, not letting my wife be sad. But it seems that being kind is not enough.

I sat there for almost ten minutes, until I heard the door lock. I looked up. Dung opened the door, covered the umbrella, and walked out in the deep rain. She was wearing a beige jacket and carrying a large handbag in her hand—it must have been the one with a red book inside.

I couldn’t think much of it anymore. My instinct urged me to follow quietly.

The alley was dark, the rain was pouring lightly like dew. Dung walked quickly, dared to look around, and then turned into a car parked at the end of the alley. I hid behind the wall of my neighbor’s house, close enough to see the man open the car door for her. He wore a black shirt, a tall figure, and a shiny watch in his hand—not the kind of person who lived in this popular area.

They didn’t hug each other, didn’t say anything too affectionate, but Dung’s eyes looked at him… I had never seen that gaze on me.

The car started the engine and left.

I didn’t chase. I quietly went home, opened the door and walked into the cold house, and for the first time in years, I cried.

Two days later.

Dung has not returned. Not a single call, not a single message. I also did not contact.

I did not report to the police. Don’t make a fuss. Instead, I sat down to check each document in the house. As she said over the phone – the red book is gone. I also found out that my bank card had been drained almost completely – no doubt when I slept that night.

I applied for a few days off at the company. Not because I was so miserable, but because I was starting to feel that something was wrong.

Who was that man? Why can Dung change so quickly? Or… What else is behind it?

I started searching. I went to Dung’s computer. She doesn’t sign out of her Google account. From there, I traced the address of a coffee shop that she frequented in the past month – about 7 km from my house, located near Thao Dien area.

I went to the restaurant, sat for hours, questioned the staff, pretended that my husband was looking for his missing wife. A young employee recognized her photo and revealed:

“That sister often sits with a handsome guy, talks softly, but every time she takes out her laptop, once we even argue very loudly…”

Laptop?

I suddenly remembered – Dung has a small USB stick, always carrying it in his wallet. I never noticed, thought it was personal belongings. For the first time, I suspected that it contained something other than accounting documents.

That evening, I went to find her wallet that I had left in the closet. No USB.

But I found a handwritten note carefully tucked into the bottom of the drawer, with trembling handwriting:
“If you have any destiny, give the USB to the police. The password is my wedding day.”
–Tolerate.

I felt like I was slapped in the face. A chilling feeling of shock ran down his spine.

Are you being threatened?

Isn’t that guy a lover?

I immediately remembered the recording from the previous day. I opened it again and listened carefully:
“I did exactly as I said… I can’t stand it anymore.”
This sentence, now that I hear it again, is no longer the same as a dating word. It was like a desperate word.

I picked up the phone, called Dung Luu’s number as “Mother”, pretending to ask. My mother-in-law said that Dung had not returned to her hometown. I asked a few more questions, then quietly hung up.

I knew what I had to do.

Three days later, I found her.

The police found the car parked in a closed garage near Binh Duong – where I only knew by tracking the location of the Google account that had not escaped. Police broke in at 1 a.m.

Dung was lying on the floor, his hands were tied, his body was thin, and his eyes were dark circles. She saw me and burst into tears.

The other man, a senior manager at her company, is being investigated for money laundering and embezzlement of public funds. Dung found out about this through the books, and was threatened by him not to report it. He took the red book as a hostage, forced her to pretend to leave her husband, pretended to be infatuated with him so as not to be suspected, while he tried to erase the evidence.

She tried to send the message with a well-hidden piece of paper, leaving me a clue. The drama of the night of drinking is to save both of them from the worse.

A week later, Dung was still panicking. I don’t blame you. There are things that we only understand when we walk through its darkness.

My small house, now there is something new: A pair of code locks on a wooden cabinet – where the USB contains a copy of the evidence she dares to keep, even though she knows she might lose her life.

And I, every night pouring a glass of wine, looking at my wife, holding her hand – this time for real – and thinking: There are nights that wake us up, just to learn to trust each other again, again.