For more than a decade, Sundays in our home had a rhythm all our own—pancakes, cartoons, and a slow morning with our daughter, Kiara. My husband, Brian, and I had never been religious, and the idea of attending church seemed foreign to us. So when he suddenly suggested we start going every weekend, I assumed it was a passing whim or a desire to find a calm space amid our busy lives. He spoke about stress, burnout, and wanting a sense of community, and, hoping to support him, I agreed. Our first visits were awkward—I felt out of place amid the hymns and sermons, but Brian seemed peaceful, and Kiara enjoyed the crafts at the children’s service. Gradually, it became our new routine, a ritual I thought was harmless.
But one Sunday, a small moment unraveled everything. Brian excused himself, claiming he needed to use the restroom, but when he didn’t return, a nagging unease grew in my chest. Following my instincts, I found him in the church garden, speaking with a woman I had never met. Their conversation, the intensity in his words, and the way he confessed a past obsession to her froze me in place. In that instant, the Sundays I had cherished—our family mornings and rituals—felt like a carefully staged performance, a backdrop to his secret pursuit. I realized that the peaceful man I thought I knew had been hiding a dangerous fixation for years.