Part One – The Night of the Stove
It was just past midnight in our quiet suburban neighborhood in the United States when I got out of bed, thirsty and annoyed, intending to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs, I froze. Why would he be fixing it in the middle of the night, moving as stealthily as a thief?
I pressed myself against the wall, holding my breath. From the shadowed hallway, I watched my husband, Mike, crouched in front of our high-end German induction stove—a housewarming gift from my mother, imported at great expense. The sleek, black glass cooktop was lifted, exposing a complex maze of wires and electronic components.
Mike, who I had always known as a polished sales director in sharp suits, the kind of man whose hands seemed fit only for shaking clients’ hands and shuffling paperwork, was now working with surprising skill. He used a small pair of pliers to snip and strip several wires. A metallic glint flashed in the dim light—copper wire.
He was carefully extracting the copper cores, coiling them into tight little bundles, and slipping them into his pocket. My entire body went rigid. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
My husband—the well-groomed sales director who prided himself on appearances—was dismantling our own stove in the middle of the night and stealing copper wire from it, as if he planned to sell it for cash. It was absurd. Laughable.
And yet the scene unfolding before me was undeniable. That stove had been my mother’s prideful gift when we bought this house. She had stood in our American-style open kitchen, patted the smooth glass surface, and said, “A woman’s hardest work is often in the kitchen.
I want you to have the best so it feels a little easier.”
And now my husband was gutting it—for a few coils of copper wire. How much could that even be worth? A few dollars?
A hundred? It couldn’t possibly justify this. I don’t know how long I stood there watching him.
Time seemed to stretch. Eventually, Mike carefully replaced the bottom panel of the stove, wiped the surface with a cloth to remove any trace of what he had done, then tiptoed back toward the bedroom. I remained frozen behind the door, my thirst gone, replaced by a deep, icy confusion.
I slipped back into bed silently and pulled the covers over my head, pretending to be asleep. A moment later, Mike eased into bed beside me, his breathing still slightly ragged. I felt him turn to look at me.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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