When I overheard my husband and our neighbor’s daughter discussing their affair, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t confront them.
I planned.
And with one perfect invitation and a twist they never saw coming, I made sure karma arrived right on time—served with a side of sass.
My husband, Mark, and I had been married for ten years. Two kids, a mortgage, and what I thought was a solid, if not perfect, partnership. Sure, he wasn’t exactly the most helpful husband—never lifted a finger in the kitchen, never touched a laundry basket, never knew where the kids’ homework was.
“We’re a team, Lexie,” he’d always say, even though I was clearly the one doing all the work. Turns out, Mark had decided to join a different team altogether.
It started with a bag of groceries.
I had just pulled into the driveway after a long, exhausting trip to the store. My trunk was full, and I was already dreading the solo effort of hauling everything inside. That’s when I heard voices coming from the porch.
Mark’s voice.
And Emma’s.
Emma was our neighbor’s 25-year-old daughter, fresh out of college with an internship in interior design. Her parents doted on her, always boasting about how proud they were. Now, she and Mark were standing on our porch, laughing like old friends.
I almost called out to say hello.
Something stopped me.
Instead, I crouched behind my car, groceries forgotten, and listened.
“I can’t believe she hasn’t figured it out yet,” Emma giggled.
Mark chuckled. “She’s so busy with the kids and the house, Em. Lexie barely notices anything else. She’s gotten so gray, too. Brushes her hair the other way to cover it up. Honestly, she’s let herself go. She doesn’t even look like a woman to me anymore. She’s nothing compared to you, my princess.”
Emma giggled. “Lucky for you, mister, I’m here now. You can show me off all you want. And trust me—there’s no gray hair in sight.”
Then they kissed.
Right there. On my porch.
My porch.
I clutched a grocery bag so tightly I nearly ripped it apart. My vision blurred. My blood boiled. They kept giggling and flirting, completely oblivious.
But I didn’t cry.
I didn’t storm up and slap him.
I didn’t scream.
Instead, I quietly picked up my bags, went through the back door, and started plotting.
The next morning, I woke up calm. Almost too calm.
I made Mark breakfast—extra crispy bacon, fluffy eggs, his coffee with just a dash of cinnamon. I kissed him on the cheek, waved goodbye as he left for work, and smiled as he pulled out of the driveway.
Then, I walked next door and knocked on Emma’s door.
She opened it, clearly surprised. “Oh! Hi, Mrs.—uh, hi, Lexie!”
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