I gave up everything to keep my husband happy—cooking his favorite meals, ironing his shirts just right, tending the garden exactly how he liked it. I used to joke I was more assistant than wife, but no one was laughing anymore. I kept lists of his preferences, not because he asked, but because mistakes shifted the air in our home. I also recorded voice memos—my only place to feel anything. One day, after a rare jog, I whispered, “Feels like I’m running away from myself.” That same morning, he left for work without a word. I noticed his car parked two blocks away, then watched him enter the metro—he always claimed to drive straight to the office.
The next day, I followed him. He sat in his car, smiling at his phone, then walked to the Tube. A young woman joined him, laughing as he touched her knee. But we weren’t alone. A man nearby caught my eye. I mouthed, “Wife.” He replied, “Father.” His name was Mark—tired, angry, and betrayed like me. His daughter was the other woman. Together, we devised a plan: gather evidence, expose the truth. We went to Laura, the girl’s mother. She didn’t believe us—until we played the recordings. Her face collapsed. “I was about to give her the rest of her college fund,” she whispered.
