The husband who was replaced

My husband disappeared six months ago. One day he just went to work and never came home. This event shocked all the neighbors, because this has never happened in our quiet suburb surrounded by white lace fences. The police launched an investigation; a neighborhood watch went around the neighborhood, but no one found a single clue that could clarify what had happened to him. Our families struggled in vain with grief. Not so long ago, the last posters with the inscription "wanted" with my husband's face disappeared, torn down, or buried under new ads. The police contacted me less and less, and gradually the calls stopped. I have accepted a new reality. No matter how difficult it was, I admitted that my Martin would never come back.

And then he came back...

Last week I was watering the petunias behind the house when I heard the garden gate creak open. Instinctively, I turned my head... It was him. The same as on the day of the disappearance. The wind ruffled the same blond hair; the same bright blue eyes shone, the same lips curved in a smile. I froze in shock. We mourned him for so long, but he was still here. He was standing in the garden, as if he was going to go for milk for a minute. I asked him where he was. He didn't know. I couldn't remember anything about the last six months.

Everyone was overjoyed: friends, our families… They could hardly believe their eyes. But not me.

Look, I know this is going to sound ridiculous. Our families will never believe me, and there's no way I'm going to the police myself, unless I suddenly want to spend the rest of my days in a straitjacket. But I just know that the man sleeping in my bed is not my husband. I don't know what to do. Mentally, I understand that I should be happy, but no. I'm terrified. I know a little about the supernatural, the paranormal. I don't even watch horror movies, but this situation gives me goosebumps.

You just listen, I'll explain why I'm so sure. And maybe one of you will believe me and tell me what to do now.

The next morning, after "Martin" returned, I made him a cup of tea. He accepted it, giving me the most radiant smile. And then he took a piece of sugar from the sugar bowl and threw it into the mug. Since his return, our house has been mired in a maelstrom of feverish chaos. I was still in shock and then did not attach any importance to it. But the episode itself stuck in my head. Let it sound like nonsense, but my husband never drank tea with sugar. He thought that it hopelessly spoils the taste of the drink, and was always very upset if I forgot myself and added sugar to his mug. And yet this man was drinking tea with sugar.

Golf was the next bell. There was a golf tournament a few days ago, and "Martin" was visiting his mother at that time. One of his favorite games was playing, so I recorded the tournament so he wouldn't miss anything. He was a big fan of golf. Once he even canceled our anniversary to watch the championship. But when he came home and I showed him the recording, he... he didn't react in any way. No, of course, he said "thank you" and all that, and then just asked if I wanted to have dinner. And he didn't touch the TV.

And then one night I woke up around two and saw Martin's face just a couple of centimeters above mine... he looked at me with empty eyes.

"Darling, what are you doing?" I asked with a nervous laugh.

He didn't answer. For another thirty long seconds, he just stared right through me..., And then suddenly he smiled, and said.

, "I'm sorry, dear. I still sometimes can't believe that all this is real."

And then he rolled over and fell asleep. But not me.

About a week has passed since his return yesterday. The neighbors gathered for a party to celebrate this event. People from our and neighboring streets came to assure Martin of how happy they were, that he was all right. He was always in the thick of the crowd. Then he stood next to me, hugging me, then he hung around, chatting amiably with everyone he met, and even with the children. Jackson, the little son of Sally, our neighbor, wanted to play hide-and-seek, and Martin was happy to go with him.

And I'll tell you what. He would never do anything like that. My husband claimed that he did not like children. That's why we didn't and couldn't have children; that's why he never played with the neighborhood kids. Especially with Jackson, Martin literally avoided him. Shortly before his disappearance, I began to suspect that my husband was just trying not to be near the boy so that no one would notice their subtle but obvious resemblance.

The final nail in the coffin lid was Sally herself. She knocked on our door this morning. She was standing on the doorstep with a large tray of cakes as an excuse to enter, but I realized that she just wanted to get inside to assess the situation with her own eyes. I escorted her out and called her an annoying bore. And Martin just laughed, kissed me on the top of my head, and agreed. Can you imagine? It was then that I finally became convinced that this man could not be my husband. Martin will freak out if I insult Sally. As if I had no reason to hate her, as if she hadn't had my husband behind my back for years. But today everything was calm. He wasn't trying to protect her anymore.

I know what you're thinking. He had an accident, hit his head, and the memories were simply erasedeven, changing his personality..., And this is quite a good, logical explanation. I do not argue. That's exactly what the police would tell me if I decided to tell them my story.

But do you know why I am so sure that this man is not my husband? He doesn't have a scar. Exactly. If it really was Martin, he would have a scar on his forehead from the golf club I hit him with. But it's empty. Not a trace. To be honest, I'm ready to dig the hell out of my petunias tonight, just to make sure his body is still there.

I have no idea who I'm sharing a bed with, but it's definitely not my husband.

So what should I do?

Don't forget to read other stories as well: drama, mystery, detective.