My Life, Shattered on a Concrete Floor

I sat on the cold, concrete floor of our downstairs storage unit for what must have been more than twenty-four hours. My legs had gone numb, but I was unable to move. The grey garbage bags lay open in front of me, spilling out pieces of a life I never knew existed — in another city, another country. A strange woman. My husband. A dog. A “welcome home” banner on a house that wasn’t ours.

I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. And yet, I could.

What started as short periods of radio-silence during the second half of his deployment to the Far East, soon turned into real-life moments when I genuinely had no idea where my husband was.

 “Hi, honey!” André walked in the door like he’d only stepped out for a loaf of bread. But when I woke up this morning, he wasn’t beside me—and he’d been gone all day. I had no idea where he’d been.

“What’s for dinner?” He pulled me into a hug. Warm and familiar—practiced. He handed me a beautiful card, as if affection could erase his absence.

I slowly opened the envelope, my thoughts tumbling over one another. Was it me? Was I overthinking? Did I even have the right to ask where he’d been?

Inside was a handwritten poem. Sweet. Thoughtful. And under it: I love you, so very much ❤.

I didn’t say or ask anything, just thanked him and laid the table: light grey plates on a white table, a black napkin neatly folded beside them. It looked perfect—too perfect. The contemporary black leather seat felt cold, just like my heart. Empty. Fragile. As if it were made of glass—about to shatter into countless pieces. I had rehearsed the questions about his disappearance in my head a million times over—but felt defeated before I even began. Any answer he gave would be a lie. So we ate in silence.

His hour-long absences turned into an occasional over-nighter. I knew what it must look like. All the signs were there. But without proof, all I had were my suspicions. My searches through his pockets came up empty every single time. His Navy buddy, Peter, didn’t know anything either. Just that he had not seen André around too much on the base. He, too, was worried about his friend.

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By now, André had been gone for days. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling — another long night wide awake. Not because I wasn’t tired; I was bone-tired. But sleep wouldn’t come. I could not let it come — afraid I’d miss the phone ring, miss that one call that would finally explain everything. So I forced myself to stay awake, and doubted myself more with every day and night he was gone — I yearned for the instincts that once guided me, my once-infallable intuition. At dawn, I’d get up. Relieved the night being over. Got myself ready to go to work. Pretending all to be fine.

He was home when I came home from work. I could hear sounds coming from the kitchen when I opened the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. The first door to the left was to our bedroom and ensuite shower. Next door was the restroom, and straight ahead the kitchen/living room. I slowly closed the front door behind me. I could see fresh flowers on the table. The whiff of dinner-in-the-making. Reluctantly, my feet found their way forward. Just a few steps forward…

“Hi honey!” Here we go again. Hugs and kisses, but not a single explanation. And by that time, I was too tired, and too numb to even ask. I was simply bracing myself for the next time he’d be gone. And that didn’t take long.

The Discovery

I don’t remember what time it was, or even why I’d gone down there—only the smell of damp concrete as I pushed open the storage door. It was dark. I flicked the light switch. The fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, and as my eyes adjusted, I noticed a few large garbage bags I didn’t recognize—three or four, maybe. I can’t remember exactly. But I do remember a sense of heaviness in my stomach as I opened the first one.

At first, it looked like waste paper—old receipts, documents, envelopes. I reached for another bag. Same thing. Then, something glossy caught my eye. A photo. Hesitantly, I reached for it. The building in the background was unmistakable: Perth. André stood smiling in the frame, but the woman beside him wasn’t me. She must have visited after me. There were more pictures in between countless love letters. They showed me she’d been with him to Sydney, too.

I tore into the rest of the bags, pulling out love letter after love letter, photo after photo. Pieces of a life I never knew existed–in another city, another country. A strange woman, with my husband. A dog. A "welcome home" banner on a house that wasn't ours. 

I don’t know how long I sat there on the cold concrete floor — hours, maybe even more than a day. My legs were numb. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Everything I thought I knew about my life—gone. An alternative truth spread out around my feet. 

Then I heard it again—that soft voice that had tried to warn me about this man on our very first date. Years ago. A marriage ago.

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This piece is an excerpt from the memoir I’m currently writing, with the working title:

The Woman I Had to Find: Healing What Was Never Mine to Carry.

I’m writing this book for women who—like me—live with the hidden, everyday aftermath of emotional, sexual, or physical abuse. Even after therapy, many may still find themselves selling their worth short—caught in cycles of self-doubt, shame, guilt, and self-sabotage.

If this sounds like you, consider joining my Inner Circle, a safe and sacred space for women—a place of connection and understanding. A community to come home to each month—to feel supported, to be heard, and to grow.