“Already missing the way you smell.”
That was the message I saw on my husband’s phone — from someone named Claire — on our 12th wedding anniversary.
I had just reached for my keys to pick up the kids from school. Jason was asleep on the couch, snoring with a half-eaten container of Thai food resting on his chest. It had been a peaceful day. A rare one.
We’d both taken the day off, ordered takeout from our favorite Thai place on Fifth Street, and spent the afternoon just… being us. No stress, no responsibilities. Like the old days before life got complicated with bills, work, and kids.
I remember asking him, “Remember when we used to do this every Saturday?”
He smiled, eyes still on the TV. “Before Ryan decided she needed to be chauffeured everywhere within a fifty-mile radius,” he joked.
“And before Emma discovered online games that turn our Wi-Fi into a NASA project,” I laughed.
For a moment, we felt like us again. If anyone had told me my marriage was falling apart, I would’ve laughed them out the door.
But then… his phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I glanced over. The screen lit up with a name I didn’t know: Claire.
And her message?
“Already missing the way you smell. Yesterday wasn’t enough.”
My heart dropped. My hands shook so badly that the keys jingled like wind chimes in a storm.
I nudged him awake. “Jason,” I said, holding up the phone, “who’s Claire? And why is she texting you this?”
He blinked once, then sighed — like I’d just asked him why socks go missing in the laundry.
“You wouldn’t get it anyway,” he mumbled.
“What exactly wouldn’t I get?” I pressed.
He just waved me off and rolled over like I’d interrupted his nap with a question about taxes. “It’s not important.”
I stared at him for a long second. He didn’t even try to lie. Didn’t panic or apologize. Just brushed me off.
Twelve years of marriage, and that was the response I got.
“I need to pick up the kids,” I said, somehow keeping my voice steady.
“Okay. Talk later,” he muttered, eyes already closed again.
But I knew we wouldn’t talk. Jason didn’t “talk.” He avoided, dismissed, and moved on like everything was fine. But I wasn’t fine. Not anymore.
That night, I made dinner like usual. Helped the kids with homework. Pretended nothing was wrong.
Jason sat at the table, scrolling through his phone and occasionally chuckling at memes or messages. Every laugh felt like a slap across my face.
When he went to bed, I waited.
One hour… then another. I crept through the house like a shadow, quiet and cold.
His phone wasn’t in its usual place. I eventually found it under his pillow. Like a secret he needed close to his skin.
I gently lifted his hand and unlocked the phone with his thumb.
It only took seconds to find Claire’s thread.
And it took less than a minute for my stomach to twist.
Photos.
Claire in black lingerie, face turned away but clearly posing for him.
Jason shirtless in a hotel bed — timestamped 3:14 p.m. yesterday — when he told me he was “running errands.”
I scrolled. The messages went back months. Jason and Claire pouring out their feelings.
“You make me feel alive.”
“I hate hiding, but I can’t stop.”
“She doesn’t see me anymore. You do.”
I felt sick.
Then, something clicked. I did know Claire.
Her face wasn’t always visible in the photos, but there were a few selfies. She stood outside a familiar building.
Our daughter Emma’s school.
Claire was Emma’s guidance counselor. The woman who insisted I call her “Cee.” The one who talked to me about safe spaces and anxiety support and “trusted adults.”
The one Jason had insisted on meeting with more often “to help Emma.”
I took screenshots of every message and photo, then emailed them to myself. Then I slipped the phone back under his pillow like I’d never touched it.
The next morning, Jason kissed me on the cheek.
I kissed him back and smiled.
He had no idea his world was already unraveling.
For three weeks, I played the perfect wife.
I made his favorite meals. Laughed at his stories. Pretended I didn’t know he’d betrayed me in the most disgusting way possible.
But behind the scenes, I was planning everything.
I hired a lawyer. Went through every document and bank record.
The house and SUV? Both in my name, because of my better credit score.
Our savings? Joint, but I had a separate account he didn’t know about — opened years ago when he said he wasn’t ready to manage credit alone.
And most importantly?
I gathered everything I needed to report Claire to the school board.
Because Jason didn’t just cheat on me — he cheated with the woman responsible for our daughter’s emotional health.
I waited for the Spring Open House.
We were supposed to attend together. Appearances mattered in our neighborhood.
Before we left, I handed Jason a small, wrapped box.
“What’s this?” he asked, smiling.
“Something symbolic,” I said. “Open it.”
He ripped off the wrapping like an eager kid.
Inside: photo printouts. Screenshots of texts. Timestamps.
His smile dropped faster than a stone.
“You were right,” I said softly. “I didn’t get it. Not until now.”
He stammered, “Sarah, I can explain—”
“Can you?” I asked. “Because I’m pretty sure I understand perfectly.”
“It was a mistake!” he begged. “It didn’t mean anything! I love you!”
I pulled away. “May 24,” I said. “Ring a bell? That’s when you told Claire you felt invisible with me. That you wanted a future with her.”
He broke down. “Please. Don’t leave me. Think about the kids!”
“No, Jason,” I said, voice firm. “We could have fixed things — if you had come to me. But you went to her. You chose to cross that line.”
By the end of that week, I served him divorce papers.
Jason moved into a motel off the highway.
Claire? She was fired. Her license was under review. Blacklisted. Gone.
I sold the house, took the equity, and moved closer to my sister.
The kids started therapy.
Ryan’s grades shot up once the tension in the house was gone.
Emma smiled more now. No more fake peace. No more “Cee.”
Jason? He tried to crawl back to Claire.
She blocked him on everything.
Apparently destroying your family and ruining someone’s career isn’t the sexy love story he thought it would be.
Last week, Jason texted me.
“You really didn’t have to destroy both of us.”
I stared at the message.
I could’ve reminded him that he destroyed us first.
I could’ve screamed, raged, told him how he’d broken twelve years of marriage, broken our kids’ hearts, for what?
But I didn’t.
I deleted the message.
Blocked his number.
Because some people aren’t worth a single more second of your life. Not your hate. Not your pain. Not your words.
And definitely not your love.
