The Guest Room
For most of our marriage, Jason and I shared a bed—just like most couples do. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours. I used to fall asleep to the sound of him typing on his laptop or flipping pages of whatever book he was reading that week. Sometimes we’d wake up tangled together, warm and half-asleep, and he’d say something dumb like:
“You drooled on me again.”
I’d laugh and nudge him, “Well, you married me, sucker.”
That was us. Not perfect. But real. Connected. Present.
So when Jason suggested we sleep in separate rooms, I honestly thought he was joking.
He walked into the bathroom one night, toothbrush in hand, and casually said, “Maya, I love you, but babe… your snoring is next level. I’m waking up more tired than when I went to bed.”
I laughed while rinsing my face. “You’ve made bear jokes about my snoring for years, Jason. Now suddenly it’s ruining your life?”
He gave me that calm, quiet look and said, “I just need a break. Some uninterrupted sleep. Work’s been brutal lately. Just for a little while, okay?”
I was towel-drying my hair when I saw it—his overnight bag. Sitting neatly on the bed. Not a small grab-and-go thing. No, this one was packed.
I blinked. “That’s… a lot of stuff for just a few nights.”
But Jason had always been particular. He had his nighttime routine—eyedrops, melatonin gummies, that horrible foot spray for cramps. Maybe it made sense?
That night, without any drama, he moved into the guest room. No argument. No discussion. It just happened. Quiet and final.
At first, I felt more embarrassed than anything. Was I really that loud? I tried everything—sleep apps, herbal teas with names like Dream Whisper and Silent Moon. I bought nasal strips that left angry red lines on my nose. I even slept propped up with pillows like some haunted Victorian ghost bride.
But none of it mattered. Jason stayed in the guest room.
“Don’t take it personally, Maya,” he said one morning, munching on a bagel. “I’m just finally sleeping again. It’s nothing to do with us.”
But it was. It didn’t feel like a phase anymore.
He started bringing his phone charger and laptop into the guest room. He locked the door at night. When I asked why, he said, “In case you sleepwalk or something.”
I stared at him. “Jason. I’ve never sleepwalked in my life.”
He shrugged. “I’m just being cautious.”
Soon after, he started showering in the guest bathroom. His razor, his cologne, his shampoo—all of it vanished from our shared space. It wasn’t temporary. Jason wasn’t just sleeping in the guest room.
He was living in it.
And for what reason?
I tried to stay calm. I told myself marriages go through phases. Maybe he was really stressed. Maybe the snoring truly pushed him over the edge.
But there was something inside me that wouldn’t quiet down. A tiny, constant voice whispering: This doesn’t feel right.
Then everything changed—on a quiet night at 2:30 A.M.
I woke up in a fog, feeling something was wrong. I reached over to Jason’s side of the bed… cold. Empty.
“Get it together, Maya,” I whispered. “You’re making things up.”
But then I noticed something strange—Jason’s phone was still on the charger on our nightstand. That was unusual. He never left his phone behind anymore.
Right as I reached for it, the screen lit up.
A message.
“Can you call me when she’s asleep? – Lana”
My heart stopped.
Lana? Who was Lana? And why did she know I was supposed to be asleep?
It felt like I had stumbled into someone else’s story. A chapter I was never meant to read.
My hands shook as I held the phone. Should I look further? Should I confront him? But something inside me whispered:
You need to know the truth.
I stepped out of bed, every floorboard creaking like it knew I wasn’t supposed to be up. The house was quiet. Too quiet.
But down the hall, a light glowed under the guest room door.
It was open just enough for me to peek inside.
Jason sat at the desk, headset on, staring into his laptop. He was smiling. Whispering.
I froze when I heard him say:
“No, she thinks it’s the snoring,” he chuckled. “Told you—she has no clue.”
My body went cold. I stepped back, closed the door silently.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t yank the door open and demand answers.
Instead, I whispered to myself, “Not yet, Maya. Let’s get the full story.”
The next morning, I acted normal. Made him eggs and bacon—his favorite. Kissed his cheek. Smiled like I wasn’t breaking apart inside.
“I’m heading into the office, then working from home after lunch,” he said casually, sipping coffee.
“That’s great, honey,” I replied. “I’ve got campaign videos to edit today anyway.”
He didn’t even ask about my work. He never really cared about it.
“You could be doing something that makes real money, Maya,” he’d once said. “Marketing’s not exactly changing the world.”
He had no idea that last night, I backed up his entire phone to our shared cloud. I wasn’t waiting around anymore. I needed answers.
I opened my laptop and started going through everything.
At first, I didn’t find love notes. No steamy messages. No hotel bookings.
What I found… was worse.
Jason had been messaging this Lana woman constantly. Not romantically. No. She was his “mentor.” His “coach.” He was paying her thousands—$19,000 to be exact—for her to teach him how to become a millionaire through some kind of online business program.
The messages were filled with buzzwords: “closing energy,” “sales psychology,” “next-level abundance.”
And Jason? He believed it all.
“Am I doing okay, Lana?” one message read. “Be honest. Am I cut out for this?”
I stared at the screen, horrified.
This wasn’t the first time either. A couple of years ago, Jason blew our savings on a beauty product scam. Boxes of face serums sat untouched in our garage. I gave them away at my book club just to get rid of them.
“I swear I did everything right, Maya!” he’d said back then. “I read all the proposals. This was supposed to work.”
And now, here we were again.
I kept scrolling through the messages, and I found the one that broke me:
“She doesn’t ask questions. She just thinks I’m tired. I’ll show her. She’ll thank me when the money comes in.”
That’s why he moved out of our room. Not because of my snoring. Because he was hiding a fantasy.
I didn’t confront him right away. I waited.
Dinner. Grilled chicken, corn, guac. His favorite meal.
I poured his whiskey, let him take the first bite. Then, calm and steady, I said:
“I found the messages. With Lana.”
He froze. Then—he smiled. Like it was a joke. Like he’d been caught sneaking dessert before dinner.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said. Not sorry. Just annoyed.
“I did this for us,” he continued. “You don’t understand high-level strategy, Maya. This isn’t your world.”
I put my fork down.
“I do get it,” I said. “You didn’t trust me enough to fail honestly. You shut me out and lied, Jason.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Maya,” he said, rolling his eyes.
My heart cracked. Not because of the money. Not even the lies.
It was the way he looked at me—like I was small. Like I didn’t matter.
“You lied to my face,” I whispered.
“I didn’t lie,” he shrugged. “I just didn’t tell you.”
That was it.
Two weeks later, I filed for divorce. He didn’t fight it. Maybe he thought I’d come crawling back when he became rich.
But then? Lana’s website disappeared. Poof. Gone. No money. No apology. No empire.
He texted me a month later:
“I’ve got a new mentor. Not like Lana. This one’s real. Hope you’re doing well.”
I blocked him.
Now, the guest room is mine. I painted it sage green. Bought a used bookshelf and filled it with poetry, novels, and candles that smell like cinnamon and peace.
I even found a little wind chime at a flea market. It sings when the window’s open. The walls hold no secrets now.
I still snore. Loudly, sometimes. But no one moves away from me anymore. No one locks the door and hides behind lies.
Last week at a bookstore, a man asked me, “Hey, is that a good read?”
We talked for thirty minutes—about books, about life, about starting over.
No flirting. No games. Just presence.
After he left, I stood there a while longer, holding that poetry book against my chest.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt something new rise up inside me.
Not hope. Not love.
Just peace.
I sleep alone now. Door open. Phone unplugged. Dreams untouched.
And it feels like freedom.
