Arthur and I met six years ago at a book club. I was there for the discussion; he was new in town, helping run his father’s company. He made a joke about Hemingway, I laughed, and we ended up talking all night. Two years later, we were married in a small lakeside ceremony.
Life seemed solid—routine, peaceful, and drama-free. We had a son, Ben, who’s now four, with Arthur’s eyes and my stubbornness. Arthur worked long hours, but I believed we were happy. Others envied our partnership.
Then Arthur’s father died suddenly. At the funeral, something odd happened—Ben crawled under a table and later whispered to me, “Daddy touched that lady’s leg.” The lady was Rachel—Arthur’s childhood friend, his father’s assistant, and someone I had always trusted.
I asked Arthur about her that night. He denied everything. But I still had access to the company’s old email accounts. The next day, I looked—and found the truth. Emails, hotel receipts, and photos confirmed the affair.
I sent everything to myself, contacted a lawyer, and even tipped off Rachel’s husband.
A month later, I served Arthur divorce papers over dinner. Thanks to our prenup, he lost a chunk of his assets. During proceedings, I found out James had left half the company to Ben, and none to Arthur.
Arthur’s team tried to discredit me. But the evidence spoke louder. I got full custody of Ben; Arthur now gets supervised visits.
Children don’t lie. That day under the table, Ben saw what I hadn’t. It hurt—but it freed me.
Now, in our new home, I watch Ben play and know we’ll be just fine.