The House of Echoes

Wisdom will save you also from the adulterous woman, from the wayward woman with her seductive words … Surely her house leads down to death and her paths to the spirits of the dead. Proverbs 2:16,18

Marcos was not an unhappy man. He loved his wife, Sofia, and their two daughters. He had a good marriage, built on fifteen years of partnership and shared laughter. But lately, routine had swallowed him whole. Work was stressful, bills piled up, and conversations with Sofia seemed to always revolve around grocery lists and school problems. The shine had become dull.

The “strange woman” did not enter his life in a bar or on a business trip. She appeared on his feed as a friend suggestion. Camila. A college classmate he had not seen in years. Her profile was a mosaic of a seemingly perfect life: exotic trips, trendy restaurants, a successful career. It was a life free of the diapers and bills that defined his.

It all began with a “like.” Then, a casual comment.

“I remember you from college, always the smartest one in the class,” she wrote.

Her words were flattering, a balm for his tired ego. Marcos felt seen, admired, in a way he had not felt in a long time.

The conversations migrated to private messages. At first, they were innocent, nostalgic. But soon they became his escape valve. He would find himself smiling at his phone screen in the middle of a work meeting. He would lie next to Sofia at night, his body present but his mind miles away, exchanging messages with Camila until late.

He was abandoning the guide of his youth—Sofia, the woman with whom he had built everything—and forgetting the covenant he had made before God. Each secret message was a small betrayal, one less stone in the foundation of his marriage.

Camila was the personification of fantasy. She was never tired, never had dark circles under her eyes, never argued about a dripping faucet. She was an echo of his desires, validating his frustrations and applauding his ambition. He began to build a parallel “house” in his mind and on his phone. A house made of secrets, half-truths, and a stolen intimacy.

What he did not realize was that this house was leaning toward death. The death of his genuine joy, replaced by an anxious excitement. The death of his peace of mind, traded for the constant vigilance of not being discovered. The death of his connection with Sofia; his eyes now avoided hers, afraid she might see the lie in them.

One Saturday, Sofia proposed a family picnic, like in the old days. At the park, while their daughters ran on the grass, she held his hand.

“I miss you, Marcos,” she said, her voice soft. “It feels like you’re here, but you’re not.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Camila. Marcos’s heart raced. He felt guilty and, at the same time, resentful. He was living a double life, and the effort was tearing him apart.

Later, at home, while Sofia was bathing the children, he went to his office to “take care of some work things.” He opened the chat with Camila. She had sent a photo, more daring than the previous ones, along with the message: “Thinking of you.”

He looked at the photo, and what should have been exciting suddenly felt empty, sad. He heard his daughter’s laughter in the hallway and the sound of Sofia’s voice singing a lullaby. That was his life. The real, imperfect, noisy, tiring, but his life. The life he was trading for pixels on a screen.

He understood, with a terrifying clarity, that the house of echoes he had built with Camila had no future. It was a path that only led downward, to the loss of everything that truly mattered. None who enter that door, he realized, return without deep scars. Many never return at all.

With trembling hands, he typed: “Camila, we can’t talk anymore. What I’m doing is wrong. I love my wife.”

He blocked her contact. He deleted the history. The feeling was not one of loss, but of liberation, like a prisoner who finally sees his cell door swing open.

He left the office and went to his daughters’ room. He sat on the floor, watching Sofia comb the younger one’s hair. The love he felt at that moment was so real, so palpable, it hurt. He did not say anything, but Sofia looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, she saw her husband back. Whole. Present.

The way back would not be easy. He had caused fissures that would need time and truth to be repaired. But he had escaped. He had abandoned the house that leans toward death, before it collapsed on him.

(Made with AI)