When my husband returned demanding the old mattress I had tossed after discovering his affair, I thought he had lost his mind. Why obsess over something so worn and worthless? But his desperation unnerved me. He looked frantic, his eyes fixed only on where the mattress once lay.
I laughed bitterly. “It’s gone, Daniel. The trash truck took it.” His face drained, muttering, “You had no right.” Something about his panic sent a chill through me. Why was it so important?
Curiosity pushed me to the dump, where I clawed through heaps of refuse until I spotted it—our mattress, heavy with secrets. With trembling hands, I slit it open. My breath caught: bundles of cash, tens of thousands, hidden deep inside.
At home, I spread the money across the table, realization crashing down. He hadn’t just betrayed me with another woman—he had lied about everything, hoarding a fortune in silence.
When he returned, I met him at the door, cash in hand. “It’s mine now, Daniel,” I said coldly. His pleas fell flat. For the first time, I felt free.
