Part 1: The Suspicious New Habit
After twenty years of marriage, I believed I knew every version of my husband, Cris.
I knew the man who fell asleep before a movie began, complained about stairs, and considered walking to the mailbox a workout. Cris had a comfortable belly, loved cold beer, and openly hated exercise.
So when we arrived at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico for our twentieth anniversary, I expected him to spend the week beside the pool.
Our teenage daughter had joined us, but Cris had promised romantic dinners, beautiful sunsets, and no work calls.
On our first night, we stood together on the balcony while music drifted from the courtyard.
“Twenty years,” he said, wrapping an arm around me.
“Twenty years,” I repeated.
For a moment, everything felt perfect.
Then I woke at six the next morning and found his side of the bed empty.
His sandals were gone, and a note sat on the nightstand.
“Heading to the GYM!”
I honestly thought it was a joke.
When Cris returned over an hour later, his face was red and his shirt was soaked.
“You went to the gym?” I asked.
“Trying something new.”
“On vacation?”
“Best time to start.”
His answer sounded rehearsed, but I told myself he had finally decided to improve his health.
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