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.”
