I Saw an Email on My Husband's iPad About Hot Water Repairs for His Apartment – but We Own a House and Haven't Rented in Years

A suspicious email about a hot water outage at a strange building makes Sienna question her husband, Bruce. Her gut feeling leads her to an apartment door, but the person on the other side isn't who she expects.

That day had started like any normal Saturday: dusting shelves in the den and reorganizing Bruce's mess of sports magazines. It was typical housework I did while he was out of town visiting his mother with our son and his brother.

The ping of a notification caught my attention—Bruce's iPad lighting up on the coffee table. I glanced over, frowning because he normally took his gadgets with him.

I grabbed it and decided to check if it was anything important from work.

On the notifications bar, I saw "Crestwood Apartments" and something about a "hot water shutdown for necessary repairs." It was an email addressed directly to his full name.

I blinked.

We'd bought our colonial two-story over ten years ago. Why would Bruce get emails from an apartment complex?

My finger trembled as I clicked and opened the email fully.

"Dear Bruce,

Please be advised that hot water will be unavailable from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. this Tuesday due to necessary maintenance. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Sincerely,

Crestwood Management."

I immediately reached for my phone to call my husband. But the den always had terrible reception. I paced around, holding my phone up until I caught a single bar of service.

"Hey," Bruce answered on the fifth ring, his voice crackling through static.

"Bruce, I just saw an email on your iPad from some place called Crestwood Apartments," I said, speaking fast before the call could drop. "About hot water repairs. It has your full name on it."

"Must be a mistake," he replied. "Wrong email."

"But it has your full—" The call got cut. I stared at my phone screen in frustration.

I tried calling again, moving around the entire house for better reception, but for some reason, Bruce didn't answer again. After about 15 minutes of trying, I plopped down on the couch.

It could be a mistake, right? People get wrongly added to email lists all the time. But why his full name? Not just a generic "resident" or even a wrong name that sort of looked like his?

I grabbed the iPad again and checked his inbox for any other messages from Crestwood. Nothing.

But Bruce deleted emails as soon as he read them—always had, neat freak that he was. Just like me.

The knot in my stomach tightened. I typed "Crestwood Apartments" into the search bar on the Chrome app.

It was 20 minutes away.

I hit send on a quick email to their contact address, explaining there must be some mistake. However, an auto-reply came instantly:

"Thank you for your interest in Crestwood Apartments. Our office will be closed until after the Easter holidays. Current rates range from $950 for a studio to $1,450 for a two-bedroom. No units available at this time."

That wasn't helpful. The previous message must have been programmed days earlier.

I stood and tried to focus on cleaning the rest of my house, but my mind kept circling back to that email. After an hour of pretending to dust while actually staring at walls, I grabbed my car keys. I had to know.

The apartment complex wasn't fancy—just six three-story buildings arranged around a central courtyard with patchy grass and a sad-looking playground. I parked and sat in my car, suddenly aware I had no idea what to do next.

Knock on doors asking for Bruce? That sounded stupid, so I called Lexi, my best friend.

"I think Bruce has a secret apartment," I blurted when she answered.

"Whoa, back up," Lexi said. "What happened?"

I explained everything—the email, the call, the auto-reply, and my growing panic.

Lexi didn't hesitate. "I'll be there in 15 minutes. Meanwhile, call their maintenance number. Say you're delivering an expensive package for Bruce. They'll tell you which apartment."

"That's... actually brilliant," I said.

"I know," she replied. "I watch too many spy movies."

I found the maintenance number online and called, biting my nails while the dial tone rang.

"Crestwood maintenance," a gruff voice answered.

"Hi," I said, pitching my voice higher than normal. "I have a delivery for Bruce? It's expensive and needs a signature. The address is missing the apartment number and building, I believe."

"Bruce who?" the man asked slowly.

I said his last name.

"Hmm." Papers shuffled. "I don't think we have a Bruce here."

My heart soared. Maybe it was a mistake after all.

"Wait a minute," he said. "He might be the man who visits the lady in Apartment 2B. I think I heard her calling him Bruce when I fixed her pipes two weeks ago."

"Which building?"

"Building C, but maybe that's not it."

"I'll check myself," I said quickly. "Thank you."

I hung up and waited. Minutes later, I saw Lexi pull up behind my car. Her face was serious as she slid into my passenger seat.

"I got an apartment number," I told her. "2B at Building C. The man wasn't too sure."

"If he's hiding something, maybe he used another name," Lexi said, pursing her lips. "Let's just go."

"Okay," I said, clicking my seat belt off.

We walked to building C, found the intercom, and Lexi pressed the button for apartment 2B.

"Who is it?" a woman's voice crackled through the speaker. She didn't sound like a young woman.

Lexi gave me a look, then leaned toward the intercom. "Delivery for Bruce."

A pause. Then, "He's not here."

And then, in the silence that followed, I suddenly realized it was a familiar voice.

A voice I hadn't expected.

A voice that made my breath catch in my throat. NO WAY.

"It's important," Lexi pushed, not realizing what I suspected. "We need a signature for this package. It's valuable."

"Just leave it at the reception desk," the woman said. "I'll make sure he gets it."

"Company policy," Lexi insisted. "We need a signature from a resident."

After a moment of hesitation, the buzzer sounded. We pushed through the main door and took the elevator to the second floor. My legs felt like jelly as we approached 2B.

I knocked. My hand trembled.

We heard footsteps, then the click of a lock. The door opened.

"Mom?" I whispered.

My mother stood there, her eyes wide with shock. She was wearing an old sweater I'd given her three Christmases ago. Her hair was pulled back in the messy bun she always wore when stressed.

"Sienna," she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" I questioned, touching my chest. "What are you doing here?"

She looked at us wordlessly for a second before sighing and stepping back. "You better come in," she said, opening the door wider.

The apartment was small and sparsely furnished—a couch, a coffee table, and a small TV. A few of my mother's familiar knick-knacks sat on a shelf.

It smelled like her lavender hand cream.

"I can explain," she said. Her hand trembled as she pointed to the sofa.

We sat together, while Lexi hovered awkwardly by the door until Mom gestured for her to sit too.

"Your father and I," Mom began, looking at her knees. "We had a fight. A bad one. Worse than the others."

"Others?" I asked. My parents had always seemed so… well, not stable. But stoic. Emotionless.

"He has a temper," she said. "You never saw it because he was always careful around you. But lately, with his retirement..." She started cracking her knuckles. "I didn't feel safe anymore."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to burden you. Or make you choose sides," she said, taking a deep breath. "One night, it got so bad, I called Bruce. He came and got me, helped me find this place. He visits from time to time."

I tried to make sense of this. Bruce had secretly rented an apartment for my mother? Paid for it? Kept it hidden from me?

"He wanted to tell you," Mom said, reading my thoughts. "I begged him not to. I wasn't ready to face everything. I needed time to figure out what to do next."

"How long?" I asked.

"Three months."

Three months. My beautiful husband had been taking care of my mother for three months, and I had no idea.

"I'm so sorry," Mom whispered. "I know this is a shock."

I looked around the tiny apartment, this refuge my husband had created for my mother. While I'd been suspecting the worst, he'd been silently protecting my family.

"You're coming home with me," I said firmly. "Tomorrow. We'll pack your things and get you properly settled. No more hiding, and though I'm sure this place is perfectly fine, it's better to be with family in times like this."

"Sienna, I don't want to impose—"

"You're not imposing. You're family."

***

My eyes closed as I took in the gentle breeze beside my car and Lexi's. When I opened them, she was smiling sheepishly at me.

"Well," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I definitely thought he was having an affair."

"Me too," I admitted with a shrug.

We laughed, a release of tension that bordered on hysteria.

"That's Bruce," I said softly. "Quiet. Always doing the right thing without making a big deal of it."

"You okay?" Lexi asked.

"I don't know." I looked back at the building. "But I will be. And so will she."

When I got home, I called Bruce. This time the connection was clear.

"The cat's out of the bag," I said when he answered. "I found Mom's apartment."

A long pause. "I wanted to tell you," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Are you angry?"

"No," I said, surprising myself with how true it was. "I'm grateful. You gave her safety when she needed it most."

"She's your mother," he said simply. "It's what anyone would do."

But it wasn't what anyone would do. It was what Bruce would do—kind, steady Bruce who solved problems without fanfare. Who protected the people he loved, even at his own expense.

"I told her she's moving in with us tomorrow," I said.

"Good," he answered. "But the apartment's paid through next month anyway."

"I love you," I told him. "More than I can say."

"I love you too."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, a thousand miles apart yet completely in sync.

"Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you again for taking care of her."

"Always," he said. "That's what family does."

Here's another story: Betrayed by her husband and sister, Claire flees her shattered past to rebuild a life of love and hope. But just as she begins to embrace happiness with her new family, a haunting email from her ex-husband threatens to unravel the peace she's fought so hard to create.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.