The past six months have been exhausting. Taking the job at Jurong Island was the right financial move for us, but the 12-hour shifts are brutal. Spending over two hours commuting every single day just to shower and sleep less than eight hours didn’t make any sense. Fortunately, the company allowance allowed me to rent a room in Jurong West, closer to work.
It hasn’t been easy on either of us. My wife—who moved here from China—is still working at Changi to finish out her contract, which ends next month. Our plan has always been to hang in there until her contract is up so we can finally align our living situation. Moving out wasn’t about us having problems; it was strictly logical.
When I came back to our HDB flat in the east yesterday to visit her, I could tell how much the distance had been weighing on her. She’s been lonely, sleeping on the couch in front of the TV and barely using our bedroom. I felt bad seeing her like that, but I also knew it was temporary.
Then, this morning, while I was in the bedroom, I found a pair of men’s trousers I didn’t recognize.
I asked her whose they were, assuming there had to be a clear answer. She casually said they must be mine. But I look at my own clothes—I know what I own, and I had never seen this pair before. When I told her they couldn’t be mine, I started getting agitated. Instead of taking me seriously, she just laughed it off and insisted they were an old pair I must have forgotten about.
Her laughing only made me angrier. How could I forget a pair of trousers I’ve never bought or worn?
The thought immediately crossed my mind: Has another man been here while I’ve been living in Jurong West? When she asked if that’s what I was thinking, I couldn’t even answer her directly. The doubt was already in my head. I just kept demanding to know whose trousers they were.
She got hurt and defensive, telling me no one else had been there and offering to let me check her phone. She pointed out that if she had been cheating, she wouldn’t just leave a pair of trousers lying around out in the open. Later, she even held them up against my other pants to show me they were the exact same size.
Logically, what she’s saying makes sense, but emotional doubt isn’t always logical. Being away for six months, living in a rented room while she’s alone in the east, has built up a lot of underlying tension and insecurity. I told her to just drop it because I felt overwhelmed and angry, but the uncomfortable distance between us is still there, and I don’t quite know how to handle the lingering suspicion.