All I wanted was to confirm a suspicion I couldn’t shake. Instead, that gray December morning unraveled everything I thought I knew about my family.
I’m a 32-year-old mom, and until recently, I believed December’s worst surprises were missed gifts or winter colds. I was wrong. It began with a careful call from my daughter Ruby’s preschool teacher, asking me to stop by for a “quick chat.” The cheerful classroom felt unsettling as she showed me a drawing: Mommy, Daddy, Me—and a fourth woman labeled “Molly.”
That night, Ruby happily explained that Molly was “Daddy’s friend” they saw on Saturdays. The details—arcades, cafés, hot chocolate—hit harder than accusations ever could. Six months. Exactly as long as I’d been working Saturdays at my new job.
I didn’t confront my husband. Instead, I planned. The following Saturday, I pretended to work and tracked their location. It didn’t lead to a museum, but to a warmly lit office with a brass plaque: Molly H. — Family & Child Therapy.
Through the window, nothing looked romantic—only confusing. As I reached for the door, I realized everything I believed was about to change.
