I believed I knew my husband, Jeremy, after two years of shared life and plans. But his monthly disappearances every first Saturday, with vague excuses about errands, began to sow doubt. At first, I accepted his explanations, thinking everyone needs alone time, but his stories felt inconsistent and left me uneasy.

Our relationship began in a charming, serendipitous way at a bookshop café during a rainstorm, and we quickly grew close. Jeremy proposed a year later, and we started dreaming about a future together. Yet, those unexplained Saturday absences loomed like a secret between us, casting a shadow over our happiness.

Growing suspicious, I tracked Jeremy with a GPS device and followed him to a rundown house, far from any place he had claimed to visit. There, I discovered a grief counseling group where Jeremy was pretending to be a widower, clutching a photo of a woman named Hannah—someone I’d never heard of. His shock upon seeing me was palpable.

Jeremy confessed that “Hannah” was a fabrication. He had invented multiple false identities to infiltrate support groups, using the experience as “acting practice” since his family discouraged his dreams. His deception left me horrified and questioning everything about our marriage.

Now, Jeremy sleeps apart, and our home feels empty. The betrayal cuts deep—if he could fake grief over a fictional wife, how can I trust anything he’s ever said? The line between truth and lies in our lives feels irreparably blurred.