I’ll never forget the way my husband’s keys clattered to the floor when he saw me wearing her panties. They were delicate, expensive, and definitely not mine—I’d found them on my pillow after a work trip.
His panic was all the confession I needed.
For weeks, I pretended not to notice his sneaky phone calls or sudden gym obsession. I even smiled when he blamed work for his distance. But I was building a case—not for revenge, but for the truth.
One rainy night, I tailed his car to an apartment where a woman kissed him at the door. The next week, I confronted him over dinner with a photo of their embrace. “You were careless,” I said, dropping my key on the table. “Now you’re single.”
Months later, I reconnected with Dante, a high school friend who reminded me that love shouldn’t feel like a detective job. Meanwhile, my ex’s mistress messaged me—she’d dumped him after learning she wasn’t the only one he’d lied to.
Those panties? They’re long gone. But the strength I found that night? That’s here to stay.
