My name is Jessica Miller. My husband, Andrew, and I had been married for seven years, raising our two children together — one boy, one girl, the “perfect pair,” as everyone liked to say.
Even after giving birth twice, I took care of myself. People often complimented my slim figure, fair skin, and how youthful I looked. I inherited my mother’s soft features, and I admit — I looked younger than most women my age.
Andrew used to beam with pride whenever we went out together.
He adored me, spoiled me, showed me off.
Until one day… he didn’t.
Suddenly he became distant. He started coming home late, claiming he had overtime. He stopped hugging me from behind in the kitchen, stopped kissing my forehead goodnight. Something inside me tightened.
I asked him what was wrong.
He sighed, “Work. Stress. Deadlines.”
But our intimacy slipped from “less” to “barely” to “gone.”
After a month, the certainty hit me like cold water:
He was hiding something.
Or rather… hiding someone.
Men cheat for a thousand reasons, even when they have a beautiful wife and good kids. I tried to hold onto hope — maybe he was overwhelmed at work. Maybe he needed space.
But the hope didn’t last.
I snooped through his phone. I memorized his passcode. I even installed a location tracker, the same trick my friend used on her shady ex.
Day Three of tracking.
At noon, when he was supposed to be at the office cafeteria, Andrew’s location pin appeared at a nearby hotel.
My stomach dropped.
I rushed there immediately. Hiding across the street, I watched him walk out with a woman whose face I couldn’t see clearly.
My hands shook so badly I had to hold them together.
Three days later, the same hotel.
The same lie: “Lunch break with coworkers.”
I had given him chances.
Now I wanted proof.
And I wanted to see her. The woman he deemed worth risking everything for.
So I set my trap.
I told him I had a five-day business trip and would take the kids to stay with my mother. Andrew acted calm — too calm — almost relieved.
And just as I predicted, the moment I “left town,” he brought his mistress home.
I parked at the end of the street, waited for them to enter, then slipped inside quietly. No screaming, no hair-pulling. I wanted to catch them in the act — I wanted to see exactly who she was.
When I reached our bedroom, I didn’t hesitate.
BAM.
I kicked the door open.
There he was — Andrew — naked, tangled up with a woman on our bed.
They froze, scrambling for blankets and clothes, eyes wide like cornered animals.
I stepped closer.
I wanted to see her face.
And when I did—
I burst out laughing.
A loud, sharp, uncontrollable laugh.
Andrew looked horrified.
The woman looked confused.
Because the mistress was no stranger.
It was Melissa Carter, Andrew’s “old close friend,” three years older than me, divorced, worn-out despite her heavy makeup. No amount of contouring could hide the sagging skin, the tired eyes, the bitterness etched into her face.
This?
This was the woman my husband risked everything for?
I laughed harder.
Andrew’s jaw dropped. Melissa covered herself, cheeks burning bright red.
I pulled out my phone, snapped several photos — Andrew begging, Melissa hiding — and walked straight out.
He ran after me, stammering excuses, begging me to talk.
I didn’t listen.
I didn’t need to.
I had already made up my mind.
I filed for divorce.
I refused to waste my life on a man so cheap, so foolish, that he traded a loyal family for a fling with a woman who couldn’t even compete.
I wasn’t going to fight for him.
I wasn’t going to cry for him.
He made his choice.
Now I was making mine.