I perched on our worn bed early, watching Jake sleep—so peaceful, untouched by debts or bills. I nudged him gently.
“Jake, wake up. I’m taking the money to the bank.”
He stirred. “Morning, baby. You up early?”
“Well, who else?”
I brewed his coffee. Moments later, he joined me, speaking of our dream: farm, fresh milk, our name on jars. I asked about our son’s schooling; he reassured me, buoyed by our plans. He praised me, his rock, kissed my forehead…
…and I left with his money envelope to make our dream a reality.
But at the bus stop, his phone buzzed—into my purse. Caller ID: ALEX. A sultry female voice: “I’ve been waiting for you all night…” I froze. It wasn’t my phone. We’d switched. I panicked, ducked into a café, stared at his texts: “See you in thirty… Miss you already.” I didn’t go to the bank.
Back home, I quietly set his phone on the table. He returned, grabbed it, texted and left—no kiss goodbye. I followed and saw him embracing a young blonde inside a house with green shutters. I sat in a taxi, heart pounding, watched.
Inside the house, I confronted her—Jake’s other woman, “the one he’s going to marry.” She confessed she’d sold everything. I revealed I came close to doing the same. We realized he loved money more than either of us.
We planned: let him think he still had us both, then strike back. Three days later, at a restaurant meeting—Jake, his girlfriend Alex, and me hidden in plain sight—we executed our ruse. He expected our money; instead, I revealed myself, ripped off a wig, and with Alex, exposed his betrayal. He sputtered; Alex stormed off. I tossed him a single dollar. We walked away, sisters in revenge, laughing—hungry for pizza, wine, and justice.