I got home early that evening, tired from a long day at work. As soon as I stepped through the door, Greg was there, greeting me with an unusually wide smile. It wasn’t his usual casual grin—it was forced, almost too eager. Before I could even set my bag down, he offered something he had never once offered in all our years together.
“How about a foot massage?” he asked, already guiding me toward the couch.
I blinked at him in surprise. “You? Giving me a foot massage?” I let out a short laugh. “Are you feeling okay?”
Greg chuckled, though there was something off about it. “Come on, you deserve to be pampered. Just relax.”
He knelt in front of me and gently removed my shoes. His hands, usually too busy with his phone or flipping channels, were suddenly warm and attentive on my aching feet. It felt nice, but something about the whole thing didn’t sit right with me. This wasn’t Greg. At least, not the Greg I’d been living with for the past few years.
Then, from down the hall, I heard it—a faint click. It was soft, barely noticeable, but enough to send a ripple of unease through me.
I sat up. “Did you hear that?”
Greg’s hands froze for a split second before he quickly resumed massaging my feet. “Hear what?”
“A noise. From the bathroom. Like the door clicking.”
He laughed, too loudly this time. “It’s just the pipes. You know how old this house is. They make noises all the time.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Something about his tone sent a cold chill down my spine. My exhaustion vanished, replaced by a growing suspicion.
“Greg,” I said slowly, “what’s going on?”
His hands tightened ever so slightly around my foot before he forced out another laugh. “Nothing! You’re just tired. Sit back, relax—”
But I was already on my feet. I ignored his outstretched hands and walked down the hall.
“Wait!” he called, his voice laced with panic. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t answer. Each step I took toward the bathroom made my heart pound harder. The hallway felt longer than usual, the air heavier. My fingers shook slightly as I reached for the door handle.
I turned the knob and pushed it open.
The air inside was humid, like someone had just stepped out of a hot shower. The mirror was fogged in patches, and a damp towel hung haphazardly over the sink. My gaze flicked to the counter, and that’s when I saw it.
A tube of lipstick.
Not just any lipstick. A deep, crimson red—the kind I never wore.
My fingers curled around it, my pulse hammering in my ears. Slowly, I turned back toward Greg, who stood frozen in the hallway, his face pale.
I held up the lipstick. “Whose is this?”
Greg opened his mouth, then closed it. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Uh… it’s yours?”
I scoffed. “Don’t insult me, Greg. You know I don’t wear this color.”
Before he could respond, another sound made my blood run cold—a soft, muffled sneeze.
From our bedroom.
My breath caught. I locked eyes with Greg, who was now visibly sweating.
“Care to explain that?” My voice was eerily calm.
He stammered, taking an awkward step forward. “It’s—it’s nothing. Really, I swear—”
But I was done listening. My body moved on autopilot as I strode toward the bedroom, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
“Wait!” Greg’s voice was desperate now. “Don’t go in there!”
I ignored him. My fingers trembled as I grabbed the closet door handle and yanked it open.
There, crouched in the small space, was a woman.
She clutched a pair of high heels to her chest, her wide eyes mirroring my own shock. Her dark hair was tousled, and she was wearing a silk robe—my silk robe.
For a long moment, the three of us stood frozen. Then, my voice broke through the suffocating silence.
“Who the hell are you?”
The woman scrambled to her feet, her face turning crimson. “This… this isn’t what it looks like.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, really? Because it looks exactly like what I think it is.”
Greg stepped forward, his hands raised as if I were some wild animal that needed calming. “Honey, please, let me explain—”
I rounded on him, fury surging up my throat like a tidal wave. “Explain? Explain what, Greg? That you have a woman hiding in our bedroom, wearing my robe?”
The woman fidgeted, avoiding my gaze. “I thought you said she wouldn’t be home yet,” she muttered to Greg.
My stomach twisted at her words, but I refused to let the pain show. I turned back to Greg, my voice ice-cold. “Get her out of my house. Now.”
“Babe, please—”
“Don’t. Call me. Babe.” I jabbed a finger at him. “Both of you, get out.”
The woman shot Greg a nervous glance before grabbing her shoes and practically sprinting out of the room. Greg hesitated, his face a mix of guilt and desperation. “Just let me talk to you—”
“Pack your things and get out,” I snapped. “We’re done.”
He stood there for a second, as if waiting for me to change my mind. But when I crossed my arms and glared, he let out a defeated sigh and followed the woman out the front door.
The moment the door slammed shut, silence filled the house. I stood there, breathing heavily, the reality of what had just happened sinking in. My marriage—everything I had tried to hold together—was over.
And yet, beneath the pain, beneath the betrayal, there was something else.
Relief.
The next morning, I filed for divorce.
Over the next few months, I took my life back. I redecorated the house, filling it with things that made me happy. I surrounded myself with friends and family—people who actually cared about me. Some nights were harder than others, but with each passing day, the weight on my chest grew lighter.
One evening, as I curled up on the couch in my newly redecorated living room, I looked around and realized something I hadn’t felt in years.
I was happy.
Greg’s betrayal had hurt, but in the end, it had given me something unexpected—freedom.
And for the first time in a long time, I was excited for the future. Because I finally understood something important.
I deserved better.
