When my husband, Tom, called in sick for the first time, I was shocked. But finding a life-sized statue of him on our porch was even wilder. His frantic silence and a hidden note revealed a painful truth, pushing me to uncover his secrets and take control.
Tom’s the guy who works through colds and injuries, so his weak “I’m sick” that morning threw me. “You look awful,” I said, scraping burnt pancakes. “Rest, take meds, there’s soup in the pantry.” I scrambled to get our three kids ready. Ethan bolted downstairs, backpack open, science notes flying. Lily was upstairs, probably texting. “Lily, we’re leaving soon!” I shouted, stuffing lunchboxes and finding Ethan’s lost sock while prepping for a work meeting.
Tom sat at the counter, ghostly pale. “Call a doctor if it worsens,” I said, checking his feverish brow. I ushered the kids out, Ethan whining about homework, Lily on her phone, and Mia asking for a pet turtle—again. “No turtles,” I said, opening the door. My breath caught. A clay statue of Tom stood on the porch, exact in every detail: his strong chin, faint crow’s feet, and old hockey scar. Mia whispered, “Is that Daddy?” I stood speechless, staring at this uncanny figure.
Lily dropped her phone. “What’s that?” I snapped, “Language,” and yelled, “Tom, get out here!” Ethan edged closer, but I stopped him. Tom appeared, his face whitening. He looked ready to faint. “What is this?” I asked. Without answering, he hauled the statue inside, scuffing the floor. “Tom, talk to me!” I followed, stunned. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, eyes down. “Get the kids to school.” “Nothing? It’s you!” I pressed. “Please,” he pleaded, voice shaking. I’d never seen him so scared.
I hesitated. “We’ll talk later.” As I strapped Mia in, Ethan gave me a note from under the statue: “Tom, I sculpted this thinking you were mine. Finding out you’re married crushed me. Pay $10,000, or your wife sees our messages. —Lisa.” My heart sank. Tom was unfaithful. “Did you read it?” I asked Ethan. “No,” he said. “Good,” I replied, faking calm. After drop-off, I sat in my car, gutted, then photographed the note and called a divorce attorney, securing an urgent appointment.
Meeting lawyer Susan, I learned the note wasn’t enough. “We need solid proof,” she said. “I’ll find it legally,” I promised. That night, Tom was asleep at the table, laptop open. His emails to Lisa begged: “Don’t tell my wife, I’ll pay. I love you, but I can’t leave yet—wait for me.” I saved every email, my heart pounding. Next morning, I wrote Lisa: “I’m Megan, Tom’s wife. I saw your statue and note. Can we talk?” She replied, heartbroken, saying she thought Tom was divorced after a year together, meeting at an exhibit.
“Still love him?” I asked. “No, he betrayed me,” she said. “Will you testify?” I wrote. “Yes,” she replied. A month later, in court, Lisa’s evidence—texts and photos—proved the affair. Tom wouldn’t look at me as I won the house and custody. Outside, Susan said, “You were fierce.” “He caused this,” I replied. Tom approached, weary. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” I laughed bitterly, “You didn’t want me to know.” I left him there, ready to start fresh with my kids.
