I’m 34, married to Logan for three years, together for four. We weren’t perfect, but I believed we were strong—especially with our son Ben, just 17 months old. When a short work trip came up, I left without worry. Logan had handled things before.
That night, I checked the baby monitor from my hotel—and saw a woman I didn’t know tucking Ben in, kissing his forehead. She moved like she belonged. Logan wasn’t home. When I called him, he hung up.
Panicked, I asked my brother to check. He overheard Logan and the woman arguing. She’d gone into the nursery without permission. Then she said, “When you divorce your wife, Ben will be my son too.”
I flew home. Logan begged forgiveness. Said it was a mistake. But he’d left our son alone with his mistress. That was unforgivable. I filed for divorce and got full custody.
Weeks later, I found her Instagram. Booked a styling session under a fake name. Let her serve me tea, drape scarves—then showed her a photo of her kissing my son. Her face went pale. I handed her a therapist’s card. “Just in case,” I said, and walked out.
Logan still calls. Says he’s changed. I don’t answe