Private Talks in the Garage

Private Talks in the Garage

I’m 35. My husband, Jason, is 37. Our daughter, Lizzie, is seven.

Jason has always been a hands-on dad. School events. Bedtime stories. Hair brushing. Tea parties on the floor. He does it all, without me asking. He showed up every day without complaint.

So when the garage thing started, I tried not to be paranoid.

The first time, Lizzie came home from school, backpack half open.

Jason wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Hey, kiddo. Garage time?”

Her eyes lit up. “Garage time!”

They stayed out there about forty minutes.

I looked up from my laptop. “What’s garage time?”

He smirked. “Private talks. You’re not invited.”

“Yup, you’re not invited, Mom.”

They laughed and walked to the garage. The door shut. I heard the lock click. The old radio came on.

I figured it was some father-daughter game. Cute. Whatever.

When they came back in, Lizzie had a big smile on her face. Jason grabbed a soda as if nothing had happened.

Next day, same thing.

“Garage time?”

“Garage time!”

The radio switched on.

By the third day, something in my chest was tight.

That night, while we did the dishes, I said, “So what’s going on in these private talks?”

Jason shrugged. “Just hanging out. Talking.”

“About what?”

He grinned. “Private talks.”

I tried Lizzie at bedtime.

“What do you and Daddy talk about in the garage?”

She rolled toward me. “Private talks, Mom. You’re not invited.”

Same words. Same tone. Like a line she’d memorized.

That’s when the knot really formed.

After that, I noticed things.

The garage window was covered from the inside with a sheet.

When I knocked, Jason didn’t open right away.

The light was always on when they were in there.

The radio was always just loud enough that I couldn’t hear voices—only muffled music.

If I walked down the hall, the radio got louder.

When he opened the door, he’d stand in the frame, blocking my view.

“What do you need?” he’d ask.

Lizzie would peek around him. “Hi, Mom! We’re busy!”

She looked happy. Not scared. Not tense.

Still, the knot stayed.

I grew up in a house full of secrets—affairs, lies, everyone pretending. My brain is trained to expect the worst.

One afternoon, Jason went to the store. Lizzie was in her room.

I stood in front of the garage door, heart pounding.

I told myself I’d just look. Just to calm down.

The garage looked normal. Tools. Bikes. Dusty boxes. A stained rug in the middle. A radio on a metal table.

The covered window made the room feel closed. Secretive.

I went to our bedroom closet and pulled out a tiny Wi-Fi camera we’d once used as a baby monitor. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I tucked it high in the corner, half hidden.

That night, after dinner, Jason looked at Lizzie.

“Garage time?”

“Garage time!”

Door shut. Lock clicked. Radio on.

I opened the app.

Jason walked into frame and rolled back the rug.

Underneath was a square outline in the concrete with a metal ring.

A hidden door.

Narrow stairs led down into darkness.

“Stay here,” he said to Lizzie. “I’ll bring it up.”

He disappeared, then came back carrying a large flat package wrapped in brown paper.

He tore it open.

Inside were balls of yarn, knitting needles, and a folded sweater.

Pink. Kid-sized. Uneven.

Across the front, in purple yarn:

“I have the best mom in the world.”

Lizzie beamed.

They sat together, knitting, laughing, talking softly.

I watched every day after that.

Then my birthday came.

Lizzie dragged a big box onto the bed. “Open it!”

Inside was the pink sweater.

Under it, a gray one.

Across the front:

“I am the best mom and wife.”

“We know you’d never say it about yourself,” Jason said. “So we did it for you.”

We wore them all day.

Later, I asked, “You never told me you could knit.”

“My grandma taught me,” he said. “I quit when my dad said it wasn’t manly. I didn’t want Lizzie thinking any hobby was off-limits.”

That afternoon, while they were out, I went to the garage.

I removed the camera and slipped it into my pocket.

That night, we curled up on the couch in our sweaters.

Lizzie slept with her head in my lap.

Jason traced the words on my sweater with his thumb.

“Best mom and wife,” he said softly. “You know that’s true, right?”

“I’m trying to,” I said.

A few weeks earlier, I had been braced to see something that would destroy my life.

Instead, I saw proof that I was loved.

I’m not proud I planted a camera.

But now, when I hear, “Private talks in the garage,” the panic doesn’t come back.

I just feel the sweater against my skin—and remember what was really happening behind that door.