I’m Lucy, 47, and I’ve been married to Dave for 22 years.
One night at 3:12 a.m., I reached for him in bed—only cold sheets. He wasn’t there.
“Just taking the trash out,” he said when he came in, though he never took it out before, especially not at night.
The next morning, the trash can was empty. Something felt off.
I asked again. “Why take it out at 3 a.m.?”
“It was full,” he laughed. “Did I commit a crime?”
That night, I tried to stay up but fell asleep. In the morning, the trash was gone again.
By Thursday, I was ready. I set my alarm for 2:55 a.m. Dave was already gone. I watched from the window.
He stood on the porch of the blue house across the street. A woman in a red silk dress opened the door. They kissed like teenagers.
I hid in the hallway closet when he returned.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Right here,” he said, his hand still warm from touching her.
The next day, I called in sick. He brought me flowers.
That night, I filmed everything—her red slip, their long kiss, his quiet return to our bed.
I did this for a week. Seven nights. Seven videos.
On the eighth, I didn’t set an alarm. I sent everything to a divorce lawyer with a note: “I need everything.”
That night, he said, “How was the trash?”
“It was fine,” I replied.
Three weeks later, over coffee, I handed him the divorce papers.
“Lucy, what’s this?”
“Your freedom.”
He stared at me, confused. I showed him the video.
“How long?” he asked.
“Pick your question, Dave. I’ve got time.”
He moved in with Betty the next day. She dumped him six weeks later—for her roofer.
Apparently, she got bored once the thrill of stealing someone else’s husband wore off.