It started with a weird feeling I couldn’t shake. My husband, Mike, began acting strangely about the garage, telling me to stay out and offering weak excuses. At first, I thought nothing of it, but as time went on, his behavior became harder to ignore. What I eventually found inside was far beyond what I had imagined.
It all began innocently enough. I was trying to get rid of an old mattress, so I casually mentioned putting it in the garage. To my surprise, Mike immediately yelled, “DON’T GO IN THERE! I’LL TAKE CARE OF IT!” His reaction caught me off guard. Who freaks out over a mattress going into the garage?
I brushed it off, thinking maybe he was working on one of his projects. Mike had always been a tinkerer, fixing things or diving into new hobbies. But as the days passed, he became more and more protective of the garage. Every time I mentioned needing something from there, he would insist on getting it for me, not even letting me take a step inside. When I pressed him, he came up with excuses like, “There are chemicals everywhere,” or “I just painted, and the fumes are too strong.”
Painting? The man hadn’t touched a brush since we moved in. My curiosity was piqued, and I knew something was up. What could be so important in that garage?
I tried to ask him casually about it, but Mike’s defensiveness only made me more suspicious. Finally, one evening after dinner, I couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Mike, what’s going on with the garage?” I asked, arms crossed. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks.”
He kept scrubbing dishes, not meeting my eyes. “It’s nothing, Lily. It’s just a project. You’ll see it soon enough.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Soon enough? It’s starting to feel like you’re hiding something from me.”
Then he turned around, looking all serious. “It’s a surprise for your birthday.”
A surprise? My birthday was still a month away, and Mike was never the type to plan surprises. Last year, he gave me a coupon book for back rubs. Sweet, but he wasn’t exactly Mr. Spontaneity. I didn’t believe him for a second, but I played along.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept racing, wondering what was so important that Mike had to lock me out of our own garage. Then I remembered—he always left his jacket with the garage keys draped over a chair in the bedroom. If he wasn’t going to tell me, I’d find out myself.
At midnight, I quietly slid out of bed, grabbed the keys from his pocket, and tiptoed out to the garage. The night was cool, but I was too nervous to notice. My heart raced as I turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
What I saw inside left me speechless. In the middle of the garage was a bed, and on it, a woman was sleeping. On a mattress next to her lay a small boy, no more than two years old.
I was frozen. Who were they? Why were they here? Before I could say anything, the woman woke up, startled. “Who are you?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
“I’m Sophie,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m… Mike’s cousin.”
Cousin? Mike never mentioned having a cousin. Why would she be sleeping in our garage with a child? Before I could ask more, I heard Mike running toward the garage. “Lily, wait!” he shouted.
I turned, demanding answers. “Why are they in our garage?”
Mike looked at Sophie, then back at me, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lily, I can explain,” he began, but I cut him off. “Then explain,” I snapped. “Because right now, this makes no sense.”
He sighed. “Sophie is my cousin, and she’s homeless. She showed up out of the blue and didn’t have anywhere else to go. I didn’t tell you because I know how tight things are for us right now, and I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about them staying here.”
My anger melted into confusion and guilt. I looked at Sophie and the child, my heart softening. “You should have told me, Mike. No one should have to sleep in a garage.”
