I gave up my dreams just to keep my husband’s secrets perfectly clean. But when I ran after him to catch him cheating, I found out I wasn’t the only one spying on him.
My husband, Kevin, liked things a certain way.
The way only I knew how to do.
I even made myself a little list once, to keep everything straight.
HUBBY’s List
🧅 No onions in any sauce, ever.
🥩 Steak—medium rare, thick cut only.
🌹 Roses in the garden—must bloom all year round.
👕 Shirts ironed perfectly, collars stiff.
🛏️ Bedsheets—snow-white, hotel crisp.
🧽 Kitchen spotless, no crumbs anywhere.
🫖 Tea set polished every Sunday.
🌿 Herbs by the window—fresh, never dried.
I was always scared I’d forget something. One missing ingredient, one wrinkled napkin—anything small that could disappoint him. So, I started making little voice recordings all the time.
Tiny commands I played back at night, like bedtime stories for obedient wives. Sometimes I listened just to remind myself that at least I was still needed by my husband.
But slowly, in between those lists, I started to appear too—my thoughts, my feelings, my fears.
That’s how the very first recording meant just for me was born.
[Monday, 6:12 a.m.] Voice recording 487:
“First run in five years. Feels like I’m running away from myself. Maybe I am.”
But fifteen minutes before that…
That morning, I stood at the ironing board since 5 a.m., pressing another pillowcase.
In four years of marriage, my little library room—the place where I used to write articles about people who inspired me—was now stacked with spare linens.
I quit my newspaper job myself. I still remember how Kevin was happy about it.
“With hands like yours? You’re needed here more than anywhere else,” he said.
And honestly? I was needed. At home. Always.
[Monday, 7:15 a.m.] Voice recording 488:
“Kevin left for work. Kissed my cheek. No eye contact. Ordered grilled veggies, steak, and lemon tart for dinner. Must buy groceries. Note to self: get new fresh lilies.”
Right after I made that recording, something inside me broke.
I was tired of being needed by the oven and the mop—but not by my husband.
So…
Instead of pulling out dinner recipes, I pulled on my old sneakers.
No makeup. No hairbrush.
Just me, the street, and the cold morning air.
I thought I’d run around the block to feel something—anything—and come back to fold towels.
But I didn’t.
At the corner where our quiet lane met the main road, I froze.
Oh God. Could it be…?
Kevin’s car was parked there. Engine off.
I hid behind a tree like a fool.
What did I expect to see?
A few minutes later, Kevin got out. No briefcase. No laptop. Nothing.
He slipped down the metro stairs.
[Monday, 7:38 a.m.] Voice recording 489:
“Kevin took the Tube. He always said he drives straight to the office. Why lie about the train? Where is he really going?”
Hours later, I stood in my kitchen, staring at the plates and the fresh curtains I’d ironed.
And I saw.
This wasn’t my home anymore.
It was my prison.
I was the unpaid housekeeper. The ghost folding towels.
While my husband carried secrets in his pockets.
[Monday, 8:03 a.m.] Voice recording 490:
“Tomorrow — disguise. Found Dad’s old baseball cap, last year’s cheap dark sunglasses, big hoodie. Must blend in. Must not let him see me. Let’s see who he really kisses goodbye.”
The next morning, Kevin was already gone when I stepped outside.
I walked two blocks over.
There it was—his car, in the same spot as yesterday, waiting.
I crouched behind a sad trash bin that smelled like stale coffee and cheap perfume.
Kevin sat in the driver’s seat, scrolling on his phone. He smiled.
God, that smile!
[Tuesday, 6:57 a.m.] Voice recording 492:
“He’s waiting. Smiles at his phone. Who makes him smile like that?”
Five minutes later, he walked to the Tube like it was his normal route.
I waited.
Then I followed.
Two cars behind.
Close enough to see.
Far enough not to be seen.
On the platform, I saw her.
University backpack.
She leaned into him.
My heart cracked like old glass.
[Tuesday, 7:18 a.m.] Voice recording 493:
“There she is. He has a type: young, soft, bright. Nothing like the woman ironing his sheets at home.”
I slipped into the next car, head down.
Kevin rested his hand on her knee. She giggled.
I wanted to throw up.
But I made myself focus.
Mini To-Do List:
✅ Don’t cry.
✅ Keep phone low. Record if they talk.
They got off five stations later.
I stayed hidden behind an old man with a cane.
But I wasn’t the only one following.
There he was.
A tall man, tan jacket, tired eyes.
He wasn’t looking at Kevin.
He was locked on her.
When she turned, he turned.
When she laughed, his jaw clenched.
[Tuesday, 7:32 a.m.] Voice recording 494:
“The stranger’s watching her. WHO is he?”
They ended up in a cheap café near the station.
I stood across the street.
Pretended to scroll on my phone.
Took a photo—blurry but proof.
The tall man sat at the next table.
Pretending to read a newspaper upside down.
Our eyes met.
His brow lifted, like saying: You too?
I mouthed: “Wife.”
He mouthed back: “Father.”
[Tuesday, 7:42 a.m.] Voice recording 495:
“Her father. Here to see who’s wasting her future. I’m here to see who’s wasting mine.”
I came over in four minutes.
We slipped behind a fat marble column near the café counter, hidden behind a fake potted palm.
Perfect.
No one could see us.
And we finally said the things no one else wanted to hear.
We didn’t look at each other. Just at them.
“She’s twenty-two. He’s…?”
“Forty.”
The man rubbed his neck.
“I’m Mark.”
“Rachel.”
“Nice to meet you, Rachel. I guess.”
He glanced down at the tiny black recorder peeking out from my sleeve.
His eyes narrowed just a bit.
“Why are you even recording this?”
I clenched my jaw.
“For the divorce. I want his promises on tape. Lies, dates, faces. All of it.”
“Good. Keep it all. Judges love the truth when it’s got a timestamp.”
I looked at him.
“What about you?”
His eyes flicked back to his daughter, giggling in her boyfriend’s lap.
“Proof she’s not some innocent princess. Her mother thinks I’m controlling. Let her see who our daughter really skips class for. She wants her freedom? She can pay her own rent.”
We both laughed, but the laughter died before it reached our lips.
Shared Plan (scribbled on a napkin):
🎙️ Keep recording—every lie is ammo for court.
📸 Take pictures—real faces, real moments, no excuses.
☕ Catch every promise they’ll regret.
I pressed record on my phone, slipped it back in my bag.
[Tuesday, 7:55 a.m.] Voice recording 496:
“Kevin: ‘I’ll leave her for you. Soon. You’re all I want.’
Her: ‘Daddy doesn’t get it. I want you. Come over tomorrow night—Mom’s on a business trip. You’ll love her big fancy house just for us. On my birthday.’”
I glanced back through the café glass.
Then quietly unlocked my phone, slid my finger to the camera.
No shutter sound.
One quick shot:
Kevin and his little princess kissing, her spoon still dangling from her fingers.
I felt Mark watching me.
“Do you have a plan?”
“I’ll file for divorce.”
“That’s not enough. They’ll find new ways to lie. People like them always do. You want to make them remember this—every time they even think about betraying someone again.”
His words hung in the air, strangely right.
“Maybe, I do have a plan… But you’ll have to help me play it out.”
Mark’s mouth curved just a little.
“Tell me what to do.”
“We need to meet your ex-wife.”
[Wednesday, 6:58 p.m.] Voice recording 498:
“I’ve never been here before. I should feel like an intruder. But I don’t. Maybe this is where I get my life back.”
Mark met me at the gate.
He led me up the stone path, under the warm porch light.
Inside, she was waiting.
Laura.
His ex-wife.
Her eyes darted between Mark and me—confused, suspicious, wounded.
“You brought his wife here? You two plan to pin this on me?”
I stepped forward.
“No. I just needed you to know what your daughter’s been doing.”
Laura scoffed.
“She’s nineteen, she’s a child. She’d never…”
Mark shoved the photo forward—the one I’d taken through the café glass.
Then I played the voice recording.
“Come over tomorrow night—Mom’s on a business trip…”
Laura pressed a hand over her mouth.
“I was going to give her the rest of her college money next week. As a birthday surprise. And she was going to run away with… with him?”
Then she turned on me, anger sparking.
“This is your husband! How did you let him…”
My throat tightened.
“I was… no one. His housekeeper. His cook. His crisp white sheets. That’s it.”
Laura stared.
“Then we punish them both. You’re not the only one he made a fool of.”
We sat in the big guest room.
Mark turned off the lights.
The house fell silent.
I clutched my phone tight.
Next to me, Laura’s perfume smelled expensive and furious.
[Wednesday, 7:48 p.m.] Voice recording 499:
“Waiting in the dark. They think they’re coming home to romance. We’ve prepared something better.”
Suddenly, keys rattled.
A low laugh.
A hush.
Whispered words like silk.
We heard them shuffle into the living room.
Bags dropped.
Shoes kicked off.
Then Mark flicked on the lamp.
One harsh yellow glow like a prison spotlight.
Laura stood up first.
Her voice cut the room in half.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart. Hope you’re proud.”
The girl froze.
Kevin’s arm dropped from her shoulder like he’d been burned.
“Mom…”
“Don’t. Not a word.”
Kevin’s mouth opened, but the words fell uselessly.
Laura laughed.
“You were going to use my house for your filthy game? My money to run away? You’ll see a single cent from me the day pigs fly.”
I stood up too.
“I have all your sweet promises, Kevin. On tape. And your lawyer will explain our prenup in detail, the one you thought I’d never read.”
Kevin’s face turned chalky.
“You wouldn’t…”
“Oh, I would. Adultery means you get nothing. And that ten-thousand-dollar penalty clause? You can pay it to me in monthly checks. From your precious savings.”
Laura turned to her daughter.
“And you. No college money. No rent. No car. Go live with your ‘grown-up boyfriend’ if you love him so much. See how long he keeps you when he’s broke.”
I looked at Mark.
He didn’t smile.
He just nodded once.
Father to mother to wife.
And we finally left the house.
I didn’t want to go home yet.
Not while my almost-ex was there, stuffing shirts into the suitcases he’d once ordered me to iron.
So Mark offered me coffee.
Just strong, cheap coffee in a paper cup—
And ten minutes of not feeling like a ghost.
[Wednesday, 7:59 p.m.] Voice recording 500:
“Guess revenge does taste better than lemon tart. Note to self: when you ever need a partner in crime, pick someone who hates lies as much as you do.”
To be continued…