One quiet night, I picked up my husband Dave’s phone and found a truth that shattered me. In our kitchen, with just the fridge buzzing, I’d been wrestling with doubts—late nights, secret calls, texts he’d hide.
There it was: “I’ll send Sarah and the kids to Mom’s. We’ll sneak to The Ivy—room’s booked.” After 12 years, he was cheating and using me as an excuse.
I kept scrolling—pictures, nicknames, their getaway plans. I nearly threw his phone, but I paused. I’d beat him at his own game instead.
Next morning, Dave came in, all chipper. “Morning, sweetie, take the kids to Mom’s—she’s not well,” he said. I swallowed my hurt and nodded.
“Sure, I’ll pack,” I replied, hiding my knowledge. He grinned, oblivious. That’s when I started plotting.
I arrived at my mother-in-law Margaret’s with the kids that day. She squinted at our bags, “What’s this?” I said, “Dave’s idea,” keeping it casual.
She wasn’t my biggest fan, but I needed her. In her kitchen, I showed the texts. “He’s playing us,” I said, barely steady.
Margaret’s jaw tightened as she read. “That jerk,” she growled. “We’re teaching him a lesson,” she decided.
I was shocked—she was with me. She called Dave, voice shaky. “Honey, I’m not okay—my chest, my arm…”
He panicked, “Mom, did Sarah do this?” She shot me a sly look. “Come quick,” she said, reeling him in.
Soon, he rushed in, wild-eyed. “Mom, you alright?” Margaret whispered from under a blanket, “I’m slipping.”
He turned on me, “What did you do?” She sat up, fierce. “Your wife showed me your lies—cheating, using me,” she said.
I pulled up the texts. “Talk,” I said coolly. Dave stumbled, face flushed, with no good answer.
Margaret snapped, “Say sorry to her.” He begged, “I’ll fix it—don’t leave,” but I held strong. “The kids need better.”
That night, he slept on Margaret’s sofa. She and I sipped tea, and she said, “I’m here for you.” I felt supported at last.
Next day, I called his mistress. “I’m Dave’s wife,” I said coldly. She mumbled, “I didn’t know,” but I shut it down—“You do now.”
Dave stayed at Margaret’s, ashamed. I took the kids home, unsure of the future. With Margaret’s backing, I’m not a pushover anymore—Dave’s games are over.
