My wife is a nurse.
Her schedule is unpredictable — sometimes, she only comes home three nights a week. I understand. Her work is hard. But lately… something has changed.

She comes home tired, distant. No longer the woman who used to hum while cooking or talk endlessly about her day.
And every time she’s home, she’s glued to her phone.

I told myself: that’s just how nurses are — exhausted, overworked.
But one rainy night, I noticed something strange.

She was wearing men’s black socks, a size too big.

“Cold in the hospital,” she said, smiling faintly.
“I just bought some across the street.”

It made sense… but somehow, it didn’t.

That night, I reached out to hold her — she gently moved my hand away.
Then, just past midnight, her phone buzzed.
A message lit up the screen:
“Come downstairs.”

My heart froze.

I pretended to be asleep and watched as she quietly got out of bed and left the room.
Moments later, I heard her voice outside the door — soft, trembling:

“Don’t tell my husband…”

The words hit like lightning.
I didn’t sleep that night. I just waited for morning.

When sunlight crept through the curtains, I saw something on my pillow —
a shiny car key, and a note in her handwriting:

“Happy birthday, my love.
I saved for a year and borrowed a little.
The nights I was away — I was sorting the papers and the payment.
I hope this brings back your smile.”

My hands trembled.
All the doubts, the sleepless nights, the pain — they melted away with my tears.

Outside, the rain had stopped.
Inside, I held the key, and whispered:
“I’m sorry.”