Here is the German translation of your story, adapted to the German cultural context and adhering to all the rules:
When Lena’s husband returns from a business trip looking completely worn out, she chalks it up to stress and overtime. But a sudden illness, photos, and an unexpected message expose everything. With newborn twins to protect and a truth drawing ever closer, Lena learns that betrayal doesn’t knock—it infects.
When Lukas returned from his business trip, he looked like the final scene of a disaster movie… you know, when the main character looks like he’s about to faint after surviving everything. Yes, it wasn’t a pretty sight. My husband stood in the doorway, dragging his suitcase beside him like an anchor. His eyes were glazed and his skin was pale. A thin film of sweat clung to his forehead, and when I stepped forward to take the bag from him, he wouldn’t let go. His eyes were glazed and his skin was pale. He simply dropped them, as if picking them up again would knock him over. “I feel terrible, Lena,” he mumbled hoarsely. “I’ve hardly slept. I’ve been running on fumes ever since before the conference.” I nodded. I’d been awake every two hours for the past five nights because of the two colicky babies, who seemed to take turns crying. Still, I felt guilty. While I’d been “at home,” he’d been out working. “I feel terrible, Lena,” he mumbled. He dragged himself toward the stairs, but I blocked his way. “No, honey,” I said. “Please go to the guest room. You’re not going near the twins until we know what’s going on.” Lukas didn’t argue; he just kept walking, as if any detour from the stairs was a relief. That morning, a rash had flared up on his torso—angry red pustules forming dense clusters around his shoulders, arms, and neck. I pressed the thermometer to his forehead and felt a sharp, anxious pang in my stomach. “You’re not going anywhere near the twins until we know what this is.” Look, I’m not a doctor; I’m just a new mom with Google within reach. And every search led to one word on the screen: chickenpox. “Lukas,” I said, gently pulling down the collar of his shirt. “That looks like chickenpox, honey. Your rash matches almost every picture I’ve seen online.” He blinked at me as if I’d accused him of hiding a criminal. “No,” he croaked. “It’s probably the stress. My immune system’s just shot, Lena. This conference has completely worn me out.” “Your rash matches almost every single picture I’ve seen online.” But I switched into survival mode. I brought him food, served on a tray as if I were attending to a nobleman. I cooked soup the way his mother used to; chicken, carrots, not too salty, and he didn’t even notice the effort. I placed cool washcloths on his forehead while he groaned like a man surviving something noble, as if I’d forgotten he’d only been gone a week. …and he didn’t even notice the effort. I didn’t let the twins near the ground floor. Not for a moment, not even to see their father. I double-sterilized every bottle and pacifier. I bathed them in lavender water to help them fall asleep, and I always kept the baby monitor with me; the screen flickered like a warning light. After every contact with Lukas, I showered. Sometimes in the middle of the night, shivering as the water warmed up. I wiped every doorknob. I opened windows and washed his bedding more often than he said “thank you.” “You don’t have to go to such lengths, Lena,” he said once, when I came in with another load of clean sheets. I didn’t let the twins near the ground floor, not even to see their father. “Yes, I do,” I replied. “The twins aren’t vaccinated.” “Then go and get them vaccinated, Lena,” he said, frowning. “They can’t.”
