I thought I knew the man I married. Jeremy was everything I ever dreamed of—gentle, loving, full of surprises. We built a beautiful life together after a whirlwind romance that began with spilled coffee and ended with a perfect wedding. But every first Saturday of the month, Jeremy disappeared. He claimed he was helping his aunt, but last month something felt off. He was nervous, distant, and wouldn’t let me come with him. I couldn’t ignore the suspicion anymore.

So I planted a GPS tracker under his car and followed him one rainy Saturday. The location led me to a run-down house where a grief counseling group was meeting. Jeremy was inside, holding a framed photo, crying as he spoke about his late wife, Hannah. But I was his wife—his only wife. Hannah never existed. I confronted him, and he confessed. He wasn’t grieving—he was pretending. A wannabe actor using real support groups to “practice” emotions.

I was shattered. The man I married had been lying to strangers… and to me. He said it wasn’t a game, but how could I trust someone who could fabricate love and loss so easily? Since that day, he’s been sleeping in the guest room, trying to explain.

Now, I sit in silence wondering: was our marriage ever real?