The Guest Room
When my best friend Hannah showed up at my door in tears, suitcase in hand, I didn’t hesitate. Her husband, Mark, had walked out on her after eight years of marriage. She was a wreck—barely holding it together, puffy-eyed, heartbroken, and unable to eat. I welcomed her into our home and set her up in the guest room. My husband, Daniel, didn’t object; he even offered to make her his famous chamomile tea the first night.
“It’s just until she gets back on her feet,” I told him.
He nodded, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Of course. She’s your best friend. She’s welcome here.”
At first, everything seemed normal—well, as normal as life could be with someone crying herself to sleep every night down the hall. Hannah barely left the guest room those first few days. I’d bring her food, check in on her, and listen when she needed to talk. She said Mark had “changed” suddenly, become distant, cold. She claimed she had no idea why he left.
Two weeks later, I bumped into Mark unexpectedly at the grocery store. He was walking out as I was walking in, arms full of produce and a case of sparkling water.
“Mark?” I said, surprised.
He raised an eyebrow and smiled as if nothing had happened. “Hey, wow, long time.”
I felt awkward. What was the protocol for talking to your best friend’s estranged husband?
“She’s staying with us,” I blurted out. “Hannah. I mean, at our house. She’s… still devastated.”
He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh. So you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” I asked, suddenly uneasy.
His eyes twinkled with something I couldn’t quite read. “She didn’t tell you why I left?”
“She said you became distant.”
He snorted. “Right. Classic. Well, if she’s still in your house, you might want to keep a closer eye on things.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart sinking.
Mark glanced at his watch and said, “I shouldn’t be the one to tell you. But maybe ask your husband how well he’s been sleeping lately.”
Then he walked off.
The encounter gnawed at me all day. I tried to push it from my mind—tried to dismiss it as bitterness. Breakups are messy, people say cruel things. But that night, as I lay in bed next to Daniel, I noticed something. He was texting, and as I rolled over, he tilted the screen away from me.
“You’re up late,” I said.
“Just responding to an email,” he replied quickly.
The next day, I noticed subtle things—how Daniel avoided going into the guest room now. How Hannah’s crying had stopped abruptly, replaced by a quiet calm. How they never seemed to be in the same room when I was around.
So I tested it.
That evening, I told them I had a late shift at work and would be gone until midnight. I wasn’t scheduled for anything. Instead, I parked my car two streets away and walked back under the cover of dusk.
I crept up the driveway and slid my spare key into the door. The house was silent, lights dimmed. I padded toward the guest room, footsteps slow and careful.
The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, I saw them.
Daniel. Shirtless.
Hannah. Laughing.
Wine glasses on the nightstand.
I didn’t go in. I didn’t make a scene. I backed away, closed the front door softly behind me, and walked to my car as if I were floating.
The next morning, I acted like nothing had happened.
I made breakfast. I asked Daniel about his work emails. I told Hannah I’d be out for a while. She smiled and thanked me again for being such a good friend.
By afternoon, I had booked her a hotel for the week. I packed her things and set them neatly by the front door. When she came back from her “walk,” I greeted her with a calm smile.
“You have until the end of the day,” I said. “The hotel’s prepaid. It’s a nice one. After that, you’re on your own.”
She gawked at me like a child caught stealing. “Wait, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Hannah. I know. I saw.”
The color drained from her face. She stammered. “It wasn’t—It just happened—I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to move in with me and sleep with my husband?”
She opened her mouth again, but I held up a hand. “I’m done. I suggest you use your free hotel stay wisely.”
Daniel didn’t come home that night. He must have found out I knew—probably through her. I didn’t bother waiting for him. The locks were changed the next morning.
It’s been six months. I kept the house, changed the curtains, repainted the guest room, and bought a dog. I don’t see Hannah anymore. She sends the occasional message, which I delete unread.
As for Daniel, he tried to call. Left a voicemail saying it was “just a phase.”
Funny how betrayal always sounds the same when it’s trying to explain itself.
But I’m doing just fine.
The guest room is empty now.
And I’m sleeping better than ever.