I’m Lucy, 47, married to Dave for 22 years. With our kids grown, life was quiet — coffee together, grocery runs, and little thermostat squabbles. A steady kind of love… until a Tuesday night in March.
I woke at 3:12 a.m. to find Dave’s side of the bed cold. I found him sneaking back inside, claiming he was taking out the trash — something he’d never done before, let alone at 3 a.m. The next night, same story. Then again. Something felt off.
So I set an alarm. At 3:12, Dave was on the porch across the street — Betty’s house. She’d moved in after her divorce. She wore a red silk dress. They kissed like teenagers.
I watched, night after night, gathering video proof. Seven nights. Seven betrayals.
On the eighth, I left a flash drive and a retainer check at a divorce lawyer’s office. When Dave came home that night, I greeted him with calm lies, just like he’d given me.
Three weeks later, I handed him divorce papers over coffee. He was speechless. I showed him the videos. He begged to explain. I didn’t need one.
He moved in with Betty. She dumped him six weeks later. I got the house, changed the locks, and started sleeping soundly — alone but at peace.
Because trust isn’t something you glue back together. It’s something you protect. And sometimes, the best thing you can do… is take out the trash yourself.
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