After 22 years of marriage, my husband Dave started taking the trash out at 3 a.m. Odd, considering he’d never done it voluntarily in his life.
One night, I followed him — and what I saw shattered everything.
I’m Lucy, 47. We had two grown kids, quiet routines, and what I thought was unshakable love.
But that night, I watched Dave walk across the street to Betty’s house — recently divorced, always polished — and fall into her arms like a man starved. They kissed under her porch light like teenagers.
I hid in the closet until he returned, pretending I hadn’t seen. For a week, I collected evidence — seven videos of his secret life.
Then I dropped a flash drive off at a lawyer’s office with a note: “I need everything.”
The night before I handed him the divorce papers, Dave asked, “Is everything okay?”
“Perfect,” I said.
When I served him the papers, he looked stunned. “What’s this?”
“Your freedom,” I replied, then showed him the videos.
He begged to explain, but there was nothing left to say. Betty dumped him weeks later.
Apparently, the thrill faded fast.
I kept the house. Changed the locks. Planted new flowers.
I don’t wake up wondering anymore. I sleep alone — but with peace.
Because here’s what I know now: when someone treats your trust like trash, take it out yourself.
Dave thought he could sneak in the dark.
Let him live there.
I’ve stepped into the light — where I belong.
