Trust is a fragile thing, and mine began to crack every time my husband said he had to work late on Tuesdays. By Valentine’s Day morning, I’d brewed more than just coffee.
I never thought that at 55 I’d be the wife secretly tracking her husband’s phone and movements, but desperation does strange things.
Sean’s been my husband for 20 years.
He came into my life when Ruth was eight years old, shy and stubborn and still waiting for a father who never returned. Sean never tried to replace him.
He just stayed.
My husband raised Ruth as his own, learning how to braid hair from online tutorials. He clapped the loudest at Ruth’s high school graduation. When she got into college, he cried harder than I did.
So when Ruth got engaged and started planning her wedding, I believed we were entering a golden chapter of happiness.
Instead, it felt as if I were living inside a lie that was quietly unraveling.
It began the previous February.
Every Tuesday, without fail, Sean had to “work late” or “leave early” for the same reason.
“Audit day,” he’d say, loosening his tie.
“You know how it is.”
“I do,” I answered for months because I believed and trusted him.
Until he started guarding his phone as if it carried nuclear codes.
If I walked into the room, he’d tilt the screen away. If it buzzed, he’d grab it before I could glance at the display.
He even started taking it into the shower, jumping in the second he arrived home.
“Since when do accountants need waterproof secrets?” I asked one night.
He gave me a tight smile. “Claire, please.
Client privacy.”
I started thinking I was being dramatic. But then came the message.
It happened a week before Valentine’s Day.
Last week, his phone lit up on the kitchen counter while he was outside checking the mailbox. I wasn’t snooping.
I was wiping down the counter when the screen lit up.
“Tuesday is on.
Don’t be late. I’ve got NEW MOVES TO SHOW YOU. ❤️ — Lola”
My stomach dropped so fast I had to grip the edge of the sink.
New moves?
A heart? Lola?
I took a picture of the screen with my own phone.
Then I set his phone back exactly where it had been.
When he walked in, I smiled.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Perfect,” I replied.
That was the moment I chose to act.
***
The following Tuesday, I tailed him from a distance.
He left at 6:45 a.m. I waited three minutes, then grabbed my keys.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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