Louise’s grandmother had passed away two years prior, leaving her newly renovated home to Louise. “I think we should move into my grandmother’s house,” Louise suggested. “It’s just bigger than our apartment, and we won’t have to worry about rent or anything like that.” I agreed with her — moving would save us a lot of money. But it would also help us settle down enough to start thinking about kids, “Fine,” I conceded. “Let’s move into grandma’s house.” The move went smoothly. We settled into our new routine well, with constant date nights, weekends away, and frequent discussions about having kids. At first, Louise and I were happy with the house — but then we started to renovate things to our liking. I redid the third bedroom, turning it into a home office for us, while Louise revamped the kitchen. We were thriving. We loved it. But then, Louise began to tackle the second bathroom, close to our bedroom. She arranged for a contractor to come in and change the entire layout of the bathroom. “Connor, honey,” she said, “please don’t go in there. It’s just a space for me, okay? It’s really important that you understand that.” Of course, I didn’t understand. But I loved Louise, and I figured that eventually, when she was done with whatever she had planned, she would let me in. But weeks bled into months, and there was still no sign of Louise showing me the room.

One night, when she had gone to sleep early while I was watching sports, my curiosity got the better of me. I wasn’t a jealous man, but I did want to know what my wife was up to. Quietly, I went into her bathroom. It seemed perfectly ordinary, if not a little refreshed with new paint. But there, toward the corner of the bathroom, I noticed a little hole, with a red glow shining through it. What on earth is that? I wondered to myself. I got down on my knees and peered through the hole. I was shocked to my core to see dozens of eyes peering back at me, the red glow making them more terrifying than I would have admitted. A shiver shot down my spine. “Connor?” Louise’s voice echoed in the bathroom. “What are you doing here?” I knew that voice. Louise was livid. “I was just washing my hands,” I said, stupidly. “Connor, you saw what’s behind the wall, didn’t you?” The creepy dolls? The secret room? Of course, I had seen something. I just didn’t understand what I had seen. I shook my head, not knowing how to tackle the subject. I had so many questions for Louise. “You were looking through the hole, Connor,” she said, her hand on her hip. “What did you see?” Louise spoke slowly, like she was trying to choose each word carefully. “Okay,” I said, giving up the act. “I peeped through and saw a bunch of creepy dolls. That’s all I could see, Lou. What’s happening? Why is there a secret room full of dolls?” Louise turned away from me, her hand gripping the sink. She sniffed loudly. “Oh, honey,” I said. “Don’t cry. Let’s just talk about it.” “Those dolls are my grandmother’s legacy, Connor. She got a new one whenever they came out, and she kept them in this room. I’ve been cleaning the dust off them, and repairing the little tears in their clothes.” “Lou, that’s not so bad then. Why didn’t you just tell me?” The truth is, I wouldn’t have stopped her from having her room full of dolls as a remembrance to her grandmother. They shared a special bond, and I knew it. “It’s more than that, Connor,” Louise lashed out. “Behind that wall is a room. It’s my sanctuary. It’s where I write my novels. I asked you to respect my space, but you couldn’t even do that.” Tears welled in her eyes. First, a secret room in our home, and now this? The revelation that my wife, the woman I thought I knew, harbored a secret life as a writer shook me to my core. “Novels? You’re a writer?” I asked, shock rendering me speechless. “Yes, Connor,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I write under a pen name. I’ve published books, but I’ve never wanted anyone to know. It’s the one part of me that’s just mine.” I didn’t know what to say — so I didn’t say anything. “I write in that room, surrounded by my grandmother’s dolls. And you… you just invaded it without a second thought?” she accused, the hurt in her voice a palpable force between us. Louise went back to our bedroom and sank into the sheets. She threw my pillow at me—signaling that the living room would be my bedroom for the night. In the morning, she asked for space. “Two weeks, Connor,” she said. “I just need to think about everything. I need to re-evaluate my role in our marriage.” I couldn’t understand what was happening. But during that sleepless night, I tossed and turned on the couch, wondering why Louise had gotten so upset with me.understood the need for privacy, and I respected hers — even if my curiosity got the better of me. But Lou was the one with the secret room attached to a bathroom. And a secret profession. But still, I was reeling. When Louise locked herself away in her writing room, I wrote her an apology. The two weeks are almost over, and I’m at my parents’ home, wondering about the future of our marriage. I want Louise and me to mend what is broken, but she hasn’t spoken to me yet.