By Thursday, I had a plan. I set my phone alarm for 2:55 a.m. and tucked it under my pillow.
When it buzzed, Dave’s side of the bed was already empty. And cold.
I crept to the window.
The street was quiet under the porch lights… and there he was.
Standing on the porch of the blue house across the street.
Betty’s house.
Newly divorced. Perfect lawn. Yoga pants worn like evening gowns.
The porch light flicked on, revealing Betty in a red silk dress, hair loose, looking nothing like me—nothing like the woman who’d raised his kids, endured job losses, funerals, and twenty-two years of Tuesday nights.
She wrapped her arms around him.
He pulled her close. They kissed—hungry, reckless, young.
I watched my husband become someone I didn’t recognize.
He whispered something that made her laugh, her voice carrying across the quiet street. Then he headed home, while she stood in her doorway like she was seeing him off to battle.
I had seconds before he came inside.
I dove into the hallway closet. My heart hammered so loud I was sure he’d hear it.
The door clicked open. Footsteps. The stairs.
For illustrative purposes only
After what felt like hours, I slipped back into bed. He was already there, breathing evenly, pretending he hadn’t just crossed a line you can’t uncross.
“Dave?” I whispered.
“Mmm?” He rolled toward me, eyes heavy with fake sleep. “Everything okay?”
“I got up to use the bathroom. Where were you?”
“What do you mean? I’ve been right here.” He reached for me—his hand still warm from holding her. “Come here.”
I let him pull me close, even as my skin crawled.
“Love you,” he murmured.
“Love you too,” I whispered, tasting ash.
Friday, I called in sick. No way I could focus on work while my marriage crumbled in five-minute increments every night.
I sat at the kitchen table, opened a new email account, researched divorce lawyers. It felt bizarre—like shopping for appliances while dismantling my life.
That evening, Dave brought home red roses.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, arranging them.
“Can’t a man surprise his wife?” He kissed my cheek. I wondered if Betty liked roses too.
That night, I was ready.
Phone charged. Camera app open. Positioned by the window like a detective.
At 3:07, he slipped out.
At 3:12, he crossed the street.
At 3:15, Betty opened her door wearing a red slip.
I recorded it all.
Seven nights. Seven videos. Each timestamped. Each a nail in the coffin of our marriage.
On the eighth night, I didn’t bother setting an alarm. Instead, I drove downtown and left a flash drive at Chen & Associates Family Law—along with a retainer check and a note: “I need everything. Let’s schedule an appointment soon!”
When Dave came home from his midnight rendezvous, he found me in the kitchen.
“You’re up late,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I flipped a page in a magazine I wasn’t reading. “How was the trash?”
“The what?”
“The trash. You’ve taken it out every night this week.”
His face blanched. “Oh. Yeah. It was fine.”
“Good.” I stood. “I’m going to try to sleep now.”
“Lucy… is everything okay?”
I turned, really looking at him—my husband, the father of my kids, the stranger who thought I was a fool.
“Everything’s perfect, Dave. Absolutely perfect.”
For illustrative purposes only
Three weeks later, over morning coffee, I handed him the divorce papers.
He read them twice, eyes widening.
