**Corrosive Jealousy: Is My Wife Faithful? Or Am I Losing Her…**
My name is Edward, and I’m speaking not just to you, but perhaps to those who have walked this painful path before me. I don’t seek pity. I don’t seek judgment—I just need to say it aloud. Because I can’t keep silent anymore. I can’t carry this alone.
My wife’s name is Eleanor. We’ve been together nearly sixteen years. Married for fifteen. We have two children—a son and a daughter. We built our home in Surrey, work hard, raise our kids, take the occasional holiday to Cornwall—everything as it should be. On the surface, we’re the picture of a happy family. But I haven’t slept properly in weeks. Because I’m being suffocated… by jealousy.
I still love Eleanor as fiercely as I did on our wedding day. Even more, in fact. Because now I know her in every light—tired, ill, dishevelled, upset—and still, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world to me. Sometimes, when she leaves for work, I still steal glances as she gets ready—the way she picks her earrings, smooths down her skirt. It sends a shiver through me, being her husband. I still bring her coffee in the mornings and leave notes on the bathroom mirror.
But it’s this very love that’s burning me alive. Because I’m terrified. Terrified of losing her. Terrified that one day, she’ll come home, but not to *me*. Terrified someone else will make her laugh the way I used to.
These fears didn’t come from nowhere. They’re fed by the stories I hear daily at work. Men snickering in the break room, bragging about «lads’ trips» and how easily they pull the wool over their wives’ eyes. One of them even looked me dead in the eye and said, *»You really think yours is any different? They’re all the same these days.»*
Now, I notice every little change. Eleanor used to lounge in pyjamas all weekend—now, she puts on makeup just to pop to the shops. She used to be home by six—now, she calls to say she’s held up by a «new project.» She used to share every detail of her day—now, it’s just, *»Fine, thanks.»* She’s always been tidy, but lately, her wardrobe’s filled with dresses that aren’t for work. New perfume. A flush in her cheeks. Or am I imagining it?
I catch myself wanting to check her phone. Fit a tracker to her car. Ring her office to see if she’s really there. Or just turn up at her workplace—casually—watch who she walks out with at lunch. Is it the same man every time? Is he too… *charming*? But then I freeze—what if she sees me? What if I’m wrong? What if this is all in my head? How would I ever explain myself?
Yet these thoughts gnaw at me. Every evening, I wait, straining to hear her key in the lock. Every delay feels like a knife to the ribs. I can’t ask her outright—I’m terrified of the answer. And if she says *»no,»* will I even believe her?
I don’t recognise myself. I used to be confident. Never spied. Never made scenes. Now, I’m torn between love and paranoia. I don’t want to poison our marriage with suspicion. But how can I ignore the shift between us?
I know jealousy is a sickness. But what do you do when it becomes chronic? I don’t want to lose her. I want to wake up beside her, grow old with her. I want to *trust* her. But I don’t know how.
If you’re reading this—if you’ve ever felt the ground crumbling beneath you—tell me: what do I do? Do I risk the truth, even if it destroys me? Or do I stay silent, praying this storm passes?
I’m drowning in it. And I don’t know how to climb out.