I’m Lucy, 47, married to Dave for 22 years. Our grown kids drop by Sunday evenings, but otherwise we spend our days quietly together—morning coffee, grocery runs, thermostat debates.
One Tuesday in March, I woke at 3:12 a.m. to an empty bed. I searched the house: no sign of him—until he returned from “taking out the trash.” Odd, since he never did that, let alone at night. Over coffee next morning, he brushed it off.
That continued nightly. Determined, I set an alarm at 2:55 a.m. and saw him across the street in front of Betty’s house—Betty, our neighbor who moved in after her divorce—embracing a beautiful woman in a red dress. He returned home minutes later, lying beside me until morning.
For a week, I recorded his nightly escapes. The eighth night, instead of spying, I visited a divorce attorney and left a flash drive with evidence. That evening, I confronted Dave with a question about the trash. He froze. I quietly replied, “Everything’s perfect,” and walked away.
Three weeks later, I served the divorce papers and played the videos. He asked how long. I said, “Pick your question.” He tried to explain; I declined to listen. The lawyer assured me I’d get the house and half of everything—community property, no prenup, clear adultery evidence.
He moved in with Betty the next day—only to be dumped six weeks later. I changed the locks, planted flowers, and finally sleep soundly, knowing trust isn’t rebuilt once broken.
Lesson learned: sometimes, you have to take out the trash yourself—especially when it’s been hiding in your bed.