The next day, I got a second job cleaning tables at a local restaurant. After my day at the software company, I’d head there to scrub down surfaces and clear dishes until my feet ached.
I gave Kyle almost every cent I earned, trusting him completely. And I saw the difference—it seemed to make him… lighter, happier. Seeing that gave me the strength to keep going, even when exhaustion weighed me down.
Kyle insisted on going to treatments alone. “I don’t want you missing work,” he’d say. I never questioned it.
Then one night, everything changed.
I was walking to the restaurant, coat pulled tight against the cold, when a sleek white SUV slowed beside me. The window rolled down, revealing a woman with dark sunglasses and perfectly styled hair.
“Are you Laura?” she asked.
I frowned. “Yes… who’s asking?”
She took off her sunglasses, her eyes locking onto mine. “Is Kyle your husband?”
My stomach tightened. “Yes. Why?”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “You should check where he goes for his ‘treatments.’ And while you’re at it, look at his bank statements.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Who are you?”
She hesitated, then sighed. “Let’s just say I’m doing you a favor.”
With that, she rolled up the window and drove off, leaving me frozen on the sidewalk, her words echoing in my mind.
That night, after Kyle had fallen asleep, I opened his laptop. My hands shook as I logged into his bank account.
What I found made my stomach churn.
There were no medical expenses. No payments to any hospital. No doctor visits.
Instead, I saw charges for expensive dinners, golf club memberships, designer clothes, and a weekend at a luxury resort I’d never heard of.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Kyle wasn’t sick. He’d been lying to me.
The next evening, I followed him.
He didn’t go to a hospital.
He went to a bar.
Through the window, I saw him laughing with friends, carefree, as if nothing had changed. I crept closer, just in time to hear him say—
“I told you I couldn’t work for three months, and you were wrong!”
His friends laughed.
“Man, I can’t believe you pulled this off,” one of them said.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” Kyle smirked. “Told her I was too sick to work. Now I’ve got all the time in the world to relax.”
I turned and walked away, my world shattering around me.
As I left, I saw the white SUV parked outside. The woman rolled down her window.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” she asked softly.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” she murmured. “My boyfriend is one of his friends. When I overheard what they were doing, I couldn’t stay silent.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
That night, I didn’t confront Kyle.
Instead, the next morning, I froze our joint bank account, transferred what was left into an account under my name, paid off our mortgage, and sent Kyle a text:
“Kyle, treat your vanity and your cruelty—that’s your real illness. Don’t bother coming home.”
Then, I packed my things, changed the locks, and took my boys to my parents’ house.
Kyle called. Over and over. He begged. He yelled. He even cried.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I filed for divorce.
And soon, I’ll be free of the man who betrayed me in a way I never could have imagined.