I Was Away for Just Three Days, Volunteering at a Church — But When I Came Home, Another Woman Was Frying Banana Fritters in My Kitchen… And Those Three Days Turned Out to Be the Most Terrifying of My Life
I was away from home for exactly three days, doing volunteer work at a church.
Before leaving, I reminded my husband:
“Make sure you eat properly while I’m gone. I’ll be back soon.”
He just replied with a careless “Okay,” his eyes never leaving his phone.
On the afternoon of the third day, I came home earlier than planned.
I didn’t tell him.
The moment I opened the door, the smell of fried banana fritters filled the air.
I froze.
This was my kitchen —
but I wasn’t the one standing in it.
There was a woman I had never seen before.
She was wearing loose sleepwear, her hair tied up casually.
She was frying banana fritters with practiced ease, as if she had lived there for a long time.
My husband was sitting at the dining table, one leg propped up on a chair, smiling.
“Baby, give me another piece.”
The woman turned around, smiling sweetly.
“Careful. You’ll gain weight.”
My hands went ice cold.
I HADN’T EVEN CAUSED A SCENE YET…
I stepped forward.
“Who are you?”
My husband flinched, his face turning pale.
The woman, however… didn’t panic at all.
She turned off the stove, wiped her hands, looked me up and down — then calmly asked:
“And who are you?”
I gave a cold laugh.
“I’m the legal wife of the man sitting right there.
And this house is under my name.”
She let out a soft “Oh.”
Then she turned to my husband.
“You haven’t told her yet?”
My heart began pounding.
THE WORDS THAT MADE MY BLOOD RUN COLD
My husband stood up, avoiding my eyes.
“Please calm down… let me explain.”
The woman pulled out a chair, sat down, and took a stack of documents from her bag.
She placed them neatly on the table.
“I’m sorry, Ate,” she said softly.
“But I’m four months pregnant.
And he told me… that you had already agreed to separate a long time ago.”
My ears started ringing.
I grabbed the papers with shaking hands.
👉 Petition for divorce — bearing my signature.
The signature matched mine perfectly.
Every stroke. Every curve.
Date signed: two months ago.
At that time, I was in the hospital — recovering from an emergency appendectomy.
AND IT GOT WORSE
I kept flipping through the documents.
👉 Power of attorney to sell the house.
👉 Loan contracts — with me listed as the borrower.
All of them carried my signature.
I screamed:
“I never signed any of these!”
The woman looked at me with something like pity.
“But the law doesn’t rely on emotions, Ate.”
Then she said the sentence that made my legs give out:
“This house… was officially transferred yesterday.”
ONLY THEN DID I REALIZE —
Those three days I spent at church
weren’t days of reflection or devotion.
They were the three days they needed
to complete every legal step.
My husband couldn’t look at me.
The woman stood up, gently rubbing her belly.
“I’ll be moving in officially now.
Please pack your personal belongings.”
ENDING
That night, I sat on the porch until midnight.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I made just one phone call —
to the person who once taught me a single sentence:
“A forged signature may fool ordinary people,
but it never fools forensic experts.”
Three months later.
The woman was renting a tiny room, carrying her baby alone.
My husband was formally charged with fraud and document falsification.
And me?
I returned to the church.
This time, not to volunteer.
But to give thanks for those three days away —
because if I hadn’t left,
I would never have seen the true face
of the man I had shared a bed with for eight years.