During a work trip, I checked my baby monitor to see my toddler, only to find a strange woman tucking him in like he was hers. The truth I uncovered ended my marriage and inspired a quiet, clever revenge that gave me the closure I needed.
At 34, I thought my marriage to Jake was solid. We’d been together four years, married for three, and our son, Noah, was the heart of our world with his bright eyes and tiny hugs. A short work trip seemed routine—Jake had handled Noah alone before, promising photos and updates as I left for the airport.
After a tiring day of meetings, I opened the baby monitor app in my hotel room. My breath caught—a woman I didn’t know was in Noah’s nursery, gently adjusting his blanket and kissing his head. She moved with such familiarity, it chilled me. I called Jake, who answered casually, but I heard street sounds—he wasn’t home. “Who’s with Noah?” I asked, voice shaking. He paused, then hung up after a quiet curse.
I tried calling again, but he didn’t answer. My mind spun—was she a neighbor, a friend? But her actions felt too personal. Panicked, I called my brother, Luke, who lived close by. “Please check on Noah,” I begged, explaining what I saw. He was already on his way, promising to figure it out.
As I paced, Luke texted that Jake had just pulled up with groceries. Then he called, his voice low. “They’re fighting inside. She’s not a sitter.” He overheard her say, “When you divorce her, Noah will be mine too.” My heart sank, and I sobbed on the hotel floor, feeling helpless so far away. I booked a flight home for the next morning.
When I walked in, Jake looked exhausted, but I didn’t care. I checked on Noah, who was sleeping soundly, then faced Jake. He stammered that it was a mistake, that the woman shouldn’t have gone to Noah. “You left our son with her?” I snapped. He admitted she was only supposed to stay briefly. I told him there was no fixing this.
I filed for divorce, seeking full custody. Jake pleaded in court, but I got custody, allowing him limited visits for Noah’s sake. I didn’t speak to him after. Later, I found her on Instagram—Sarah, a stylist with a cheery feed. I booked a session under a fake name. At her shop, she was warm, unaware of me. I showed her the monitor screenshot, watching her freeze. “Noah’s okay. I am too,” I said, handing her a therapist’s card before leaving.
Jake still calls, saying he’s sorry. I ignore him. Noah and I are moving forward, with the baby monitor’s light as our comfort. My revenge was subtle, but it set me free.
