It was a Monday morning like any other, and I was in full-on mom mode, laser-focused on getting the kids out the door and to school on time. But as I loaded their lunch bags and backpacks into the car, something caught my eye—a small, bright pink sticky note stuck to the trunk of my husband Thomas’s car. My heart skipped a beat as I walked over to see what it said.
“Hold on, kids!” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just need to check something on Dad’s car.”
“Okay, Mom!” my daughter Natasha replied from the backseat, her voice full of curiosity.
The note read: “Sorry, I scratched your car last night. You shouldn’t park on the street though! -Neighbor from 283. This is my number in case you need anything!”
A wave of confusion and nausea washed over me. We didn’t live near any house with that number, and Thomas always parked his car in our garage. So why was this note on his car? What had he been up to?
“What was it, Mom?” Natasha asked when I got back into the driver’s seat.
“Nothing, sweetie,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Just a piece of paper that got stuck on Dad’s car.”
Thomas had just returned from a business trip that morning, so his car should have been parked at the airport all weekend. But this note suggested otherwise, and a sinking feeling started to settle in my stomach. Something didn’t add up.
“Have a great day, kids!” I said, trying to sound cheerful as I dropped them off at school.
“Don’t forget, Mom,” Natasha reminded me as she got out of the car. “We have to make cookies for school tomorrow. We need, like, sixty cookies!”
After dropping the kids off, I headed to the grocery store to pick up everything we’d need for the cookies. But as I wandered the baking aisle, my mind wasn’t on flour or chocolate chips—it was on Thomas. What had he been up to? Why was there a note on his car?
I decided to call him.
“Hi, honey,” I said when he answered.
“Hey, Sierra,” he replied, sounding distracted. “Is everything okay? I’m just about to head into a meeting. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” And with that, he hung up.
“What on earth is going on?” I muttered to myself as I tossed a bag of gummy worms into the cart, thinking of Jake, my son.
Later, after picking up the kids, we spent the afternoon making sandwiches and baking cookies for Natasha’s class. But my mind was still elsewhere, racing with questions I couldn’t shake.
“Mom, are you okay?” Natasha asked as she mixed in the chocolate chips. “You’re not helping Jake with his homework.”
“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. But inside, I was anything but fine.
That evening, after tucking the kids into bed, I sat down and dialed the number on the note. The phone rang twice before a cheerful voice answered.
“Hello, is this house 283?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
“Yes, it is!” the woman replied. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Sierra,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m calling because I found a note on my husband’s car this morning. You mentioned you accidentally scratched it?”
There was a brief pause. “Oh, yes! I’m Jane,” the woman said, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I’m so sorry about that. I scratched the car while parking last night. I live at 283 Elm Street. Are you new to the neighborhood?”
My heart pounded. “No, no,” I replied quickly, forcing a smile even though she couldn’t see it. “I’m sure Thomas was just visiting a friend. Don’t worry about the scratch, it’s no big deal!”
“Are you sure?” Jane asked, concerned. “I’m sure insurance will cover it if there’s any damage.”
“It’s fine,” I said, glancing out the window, trying to calm myself down. “But can you tell me exactly where the car was parked?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Jane spoke again, her voice softer. “He was parked right outside my house. There’s a small park across the street, and next to it is a woman’s house. I’m really sorry.”
“Thank you, Jane,” I said, hanging up, my mind racing. Thomas had lied to me. He wasn’t on a business trip, and his car hadn’t been at the airport. Instead, it had been parked outside some woman’s house. But I needed proof before confronting him. So, I crawled into bed beside him that night and forced myself to sleep.
The next morning, I gave the kids cereal for breakfast while trying to figure out what to do next. After dropping them off at school, I followed the GPS to Elm Street, about twenty minutes away. I found the park and the house Jane had mentioned. Taking a deep breath, I walked up to the door and knocked. A few moments later, a woman in her thirties opened the door.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing in confusion.
“My name is Sierra,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “I believe my husband, Thomas, was with you this weekend?”
Her eyes widened in shock, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, my God. I had no idea he was married. Please, come in. I’m Mary.”
My heart ached, and my wedding ring suddenly felt tighter on my finger. “He didn’t mention us? His family?” I asked, trying to hold back tears.
Mary shook her head, looking genuinely sorry. “No, he told me he was single. We met at a local market, and we’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. But he did say work had been hectic lately, so we haven’t seen each other much.”
“Mary,” I said, trying to stay calm, “I need your help. I need proof of his cheating for my divorce lawyer. I can’t stay married to a man like this, especially with my kids. Can you help me?”
Mary looked at me, her eyes full of determination. “Of course,” she said firmly. “We’ll catch him in the act.”
That evening, Mary sent Thomas a text, inviting him over for dinner. “I’ll tell him I cooked,” she said as I left her house. “That usually gets him here.”
I dropped the kids off at my mom’s house and headed back to Mary’s, ready to catch Thomas red-handed. When he arrived, Mary greeted him with a kiss at the door, and my stomach churned, but I snapped the picture anyway. Then, I stepped out from my hiding spot.
“Thomas,” I said, my voice shaking with anger, “what the hell is this?”
His face went pale as he turned to face me. “Sierra, what are you doing here?”
Mary crossed her arms, glaring at him. “You lied to both of us, Thomas. How could you? And you have children?”
He stammered, searching for the right words, but there were none. “It’s not what it looks like,” he finally blurted out.
“Save it,” I said, holding up my phone. “I’ve got all the proof I need. I’m filing for divorce.”
“Sierra, please,” he begged, trying to follow me to the car.
I brushed him off and drove away, heading home to my kids.
In the weeks that followed, Mary and I became unexpected friends, bonded by the betrayal we’d both experienced. The strangest part? My kids took to her almost instantly.
When the divorce papers were finally signed, I felt a huge sense of relief and empowerment. Sure, my heart was broken, and my home was shattered. But as I began to heal, my kids brought joy back into my life in ways only they could.
As for Thomas? He moved back in with his parents and didn’t even try to fix things.
What would you have done in my shoes?