Trust me

My wife is sniffing out infidelity everywhere and throwing jealous tantrums at me. She's gone so far that she's surprised herself.

I didn't notice the door open. Only when I smelled the familiar scent of her perfume and her heavy gaze fixed on my face did I realize what was happening. Iga was standing next to our table. She looked pale and tense.

It used to be a fairy tale. Iga was different back then. Passionate, feisty, with a sense of humor. She could deliver a line so sharp that half the room would burst into laughter. I looked at her and thought, "This is going to be the woman of my life." And she stayed. Only in a version I didn't know.

She questioned everything.

The jealousy didn't appear immediately. At first, there was just a hint of uncertainty – once, twice, three times. And then the shadow grew. And suddenly, every "I love you" we said was laced with suspicion. Iga started checking me out, questioning me, controlling me. And like an idiot, I kept explaining away every conversation. As if being in a relationship meant I couldn't have contact with any other woman, even my cousin.

"Michał, who is this Anka from work?" she asked once, scrolling through her phone.

"An accountant. Why do you ask?"

"Because she liked your picture. She also wrote, 'Well, you're finally smiling.'"

"Because lately I've been complaining that I'm constantly depressed. Don't you feel it?"

"So you write to her about your emotions?"

And that's exactly how our conversations went. Each one started with a seemingly ordinary question and ended like an interrogation. At first, I tried to talk, explain, beg her to trust me. But over time, every word became a match, and I was standing in the middle of a barrel of gasoline.

I was tired of it.

That's when I knew it wouldn't change. Jealousy had ingrained itself into our relationship like roots in a wall. Explaining anything was like talking with a closed window—you can hear yourself, but it doesn't reach anywhere else.

Some time ago, my cousin Natalia, whom I hadn't seen in about twenty years, wrote to me. She had just moved to my town. I met her at a quiet café on the corner. She arrived early. We hadn't seen each other for so long, and we talked as if we'd just been playing computer games together yesterday.

"You've changed," she said with a smile. “You used to wear T-shirts with some monsters on them.”

“And you made me read Anne of Green Gables so we could make a scene out of it for my aunt,” I reminded her, laughing.

We talked about everything—her life in Ireland, my work, my family.

“I feel guilty for talking to anyone,” I said suddenly, more to myself than to her.

“That doesn’t sound good, Michał. It’s not normal,” she replied quietly.

“Because nothing is normal between us anymore,” I added. “You know, Iga, my wife… she sees everything through a filter. Every woman is a threat to her.”

She made a scene.

I didn’t notice the door open. Only when I smelled the familiar scent of her perfume and her heavy gaze fixed on my face did I understand what was happening. Iga was standing next to our table. She looked pale and tense.

“Well, Michał. You came up with this beautifully.” Coffee, cake, laughter. And all quietly, as always. Don't tell me she's a colleague from work. At least tell the truth this time.

I stood up slowly.

"Iga, meet Natalia. She's my cousin."

She looked down at Natalia, then back at me.

"What?"

"Cousin. My godmother's daughter. She wrote that she was coming, wanted to meet. That's all."

Iga didn't say anything. She stood still for a moment, then wordlessly turned and left. Natalia still held her spoon over her cup.

"I didn't know it was like this," she said carefully.

"Nobody knew. Not even me, at first."

I was ashamed.

A week passed. There were no arguments, no conversations. Iga didn't once ask what we were doing in that café, didn't ask for any explanations. Everything fell silent. And it was that silence that hurt more than any scene.

One evening, I packed. I took only the bare necessities. I left a list of things I'd pick up later. I left before she got home from work. I called Krzysiek. I had a key to his apartment; he'd suggested it a long time ago. When I arrived, Krzysiek glanced at his bag, then at me.

"Iga probably won't understand."

"She doesn't have to. I've been trying to explain everything for too long."

There was no anger inside me, only exhaustion. I felt it wasn't a decision anymore, it was a necessity. The last few months had been like holding on to a branch that had long since snapped, only I hadn't fallen yet. Now I'd let go.

I felt guilty.

I saw Iga for the first time at university. "She was different from the rest," she said, as if the world intrigued her, not frightened her. She had an intangible softness that drew her in. She was the one who made the first move. She was always the braver one. At first, it was flirtation. Then walks together, movies, our first night together. And then – tenderness. She fell asleep on my chest. It was all warm. Safe.

The jealousy came later. First, once – when she said she didn't like it when I texted my ex, even though it was only about a book she was supposed to return. Then again – when she asked why I added a colleague from work as a friend. Back then, she still said it was stupid of her, that she was embarrassed, but she couldn't help herself. At first, I tried to comfort her.

Then it stopped being tender. She was angry when I forgot to answer once because I'd fallen asleep with my phone on silent. When I said I was going for a beer with friends, she asked, "Only with friends?" And I laughed. I laughed less each time.

Now I think – maybe it's my fault? Maybe I didn't set the boundaries when I should have? Maybe I spent too much time justifying everything. Maybe I wanted her to feel safe instead of saying, "Trust me or this is pointless"?