For years, Derek and I built what looked like a perfect life—two kids, a cozy home, shared routines. But beneath the surface, cracks were forming. Derek, once a devoted husband, grew distant. Business trips multiplied, excuses became vaguer, and conversations felt rushed.
One weekend, while cleaning his car, I found hotel receipts hidden in the glove compartment. The dates matched his supposed trips. My stomach sank. At first, I tried to rationalize—maybe a meeting, maybe a favor for a friend. But doubt gnawed at me.
Soon, the evidence piled up: late nights, secretive calls, trips that didn’t add up. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. The breaking point came when I decided to follow him. My pulse raced as I trailed his car—not to his office, but to a nearby hotel.
From the lobby, I watched in horror as Derek walked in with another woman. They laughed, touched, embraced. Not business—intimacy.
I stepped forward, trembling. Derek froze when he saw me. The woman sneered, “Who are you?”
“I’m his wife,” I whispered, voice shaking.
And in that moment, my perfect life shattered.
