Every night, I heard strange noises coming from our garage: when I saw what my husband was doing there, I was simply horrified

Every night, I heard strange noises coming from our garage: when I saw what my husband was doing there, I was simply horrified 

At first, it seemed like nothing. A faint clinking of metal, a creak, sometimes a low hum. I thought: he’s probably fixing the car or has gotten into some new hobby. But day by day, his behavior grew stranger.

The children would fall asleep, and he would silently rise from the table and head out to the garage. He returned only late at night — exhausted, with odd reddish stains on his clothes. To my questions, he gave curt replies:

— Working. Don’t ask.

And when one day I insisted on knowing what he was doing in the garage, he snapped sharply:

— It’s none of your business.

Those words hurt me and made me suspicious. I hardly recognized him anymore.

It was as if a wall had grown between us, and I began to fear the worst.

One day, while he was at work, I decided to find out everything. I took the keys, went out into the yard, and stopped in front of the rusty garage doors. My heart was pounding so hard it seemed the whole street could hear it. With trembling hands, I slid the key into the lock and slowly opened the door.

Inside, it was dark and smelled of dampness. And then I saw it… and froze in terror  To be continued in the first comment 

In the middle stood an old motorcycle. Or rather — what was left of it. Taken apart almost down to the last screw, surrounded by tools and boxes of spare parts.

On the wall hung old black-and-white photographs. In all of them appeared the same man: his father.

It hit me like a jolt of electricity. That motorcycle was the very one on which his father had died many years ago. My husband had never liked talking about it, and I knew he had suffered deeply from the tragedy.

I, on the other hand, had always avoided the subject — precisely because I knew that this iron beast had taken a life.

Now everything became clear. He was restoring that very motorcycle. At night, in secret from me. And he hadn’t told me, because he knew: I wouldn’t approve. I would be afraid.

I stood there, gripping the door handle, unable to look away. My heart was uneasy, but at the same time I felt bitterness and… compassion. He wasn’t doing it for the machine. He was trying to bring back the memory of his father, to reclaim at least a part of what he had lost.

And now I had to decide: to condemn him for this secret… or to accept his pain and the way he had chosen to cope with it.