We’ve been married two years, and every first Saturday of the month, my husband vanishes for a few hours.
“Running errands,” he says, or “Helping my aunt.” I never questioned it-he’d come home with groceries or a bakery bag.
But last month, I asked to tag along.
His face tensed. “You know my aunt doesn’t really like you, so it’s better you doesn’t come,” he muttered before driving off.
I barely spoke to his aunt, but never felt any hostility.
So this month, I tucked a GPS tracker under his car and followed him.
He drove 30 minutes out of town to a run-down house and rushed inside.
I knocked. The tears appear in my eves when the door opened and I saw a room full of children — some laughing, some sitting quietly on a threadbare carpet, others running up to hug my husband as he stepped through the doorway.
He knelt down, smiling, arms full of grocery bags and a bakery box, and the children clung to him like he was their hero. One little girl tugged on his sleeve and asked, “Did you bring the muffins again?” He laughed and pulled out a box with her name scribbled on it in pink marker.
I stood frozen at the doorway until a woman — perhaps in her fifties — noticed me and gently asked, “Can I help you?”
“I… I’m his wife,” I whispered, still in disbelief.
Her expression softened. “Oh, you must be Emily. He talks about you all the time.”
I blinked. “He does?”
She nodded, stepping aside to let me in. “Every month, like clockwork. Rain or shine. He’s been bringing food, books, even helping fix our plumbing. He told us not to mention it—said you had enough to worry about.”
I watched him sit among the children, handing out food and gently asking about their week. He was different here — calm, whole, shining.
When he finally looked up and saw me, his smile faltered. “You followed me.”
I nodded, tears slipping down my cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He stood slowly, brushing off crumbs. “Because I didn’t want praise or questions. I didn’t want you to think I was hiding something. I just… I needed to do this. These kids—some of them don’t have anyone. I know what that feels like.”
I stepped into his arms without hesitation, wrapping him in the hug he didn’t know he needed.
We stayed the rest of the afternoon. I played with a toddler who tried to climb my back. We helped serve lunch. That night, on the way home, he held my hand tighter than usual.
I never questioned the first Saturday of the month again.
Instead, I started baking extra muffins.
With pink labels.
And love.