Luke had claimed to be in Philadelphia that weekend.
Something clicked. I didn’t react immediately. I waited. And the next time he left town, I packed a bag, called in sick, and made the drive north.
What I found confirmed my fears.
The house was suspiciously tidy. A new throw blanket on the couch. A lipstick-stained wine glass in the sink—coral, not my color. The bed was perfectly made, and in the bathroom drain was a single long blonde hair. Mine is short and dark.
I didn’t break down. I made a plan.
That afternoon, I installed a discreet security system with cameras by the front door, in the backyard, and one tucked onto a bookshelf. Then I returned to Chicago and waited.
The following weekend, Luke left again—this time to “Minnesota.” That Friday, I received a motion alert. I opened the app, and there he was, unlocking the front door. Behind him, a tall blonde woman stepped in, laughing. “Welcome back to paradise, babe,” he said.
I didn’t react. I watched, then turned off the feed.
The next week, I kept everything normal. When Luke mentioned another trip, I smiled and suggested I tag along. He hesitated. I pressed. Eventually, we made the drive together.
After lunch, I said I had a surprise and turned on the TV. Footage of him and the woman played onscreen. He froze.
He tried to explain. I calmly handed him divorce papers. “You have until Monday to sign.”
He left that afternoon.
That evening, I wrapped myself in my grandmother’s quilt and sat on the dock, the lake calm and glowing under the sunset. For the first time in months, I felt peace.
That house wasn’t just a gift—it was a reminder. I deserve more than excuses and half-truths. If your instincts ever whisper that something’s wrong, listen. Trust yourself. Because your peace is worth protecting—and so are you.