I thought I knew my husband. After 22 years of marriage, I thought I knew every sigh, every habit, every silence. But when Dave started taking out the trash at 3 a.m., I learned how wrong I was.
I’m Lucy, 47, married to Dave for over two decades. Our kids are grown, our routines predictable: coffee at 7, groceries on Saturdays, thermostat debates every winter. It was the kind of quiet love you think will last forever.
Then one Tuesday night in March, I woke up to cold sheets. Dave’s side of the bed was empty. The clock read 3:12 a.m. I crept downstairs. The kitchen was untouched. No water glass, no signs of life.
Then the front door creaked open. Dave stepped in.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Taking out the trash,” he said.
“At 3 a.m.?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged.
He’d never taken out the trash voluntarily. Ever.
The next morning, the trash was gone. He wasn’t lying — but something felt off. He hummed while making coffee, kissed my forehead, asked about my day. Normal. Too normal.
That night, I stayed up pretending to watch Netflix, determined to catch him. But I fell asleep. Morning came, trash gone again.
Thursday, I set my alarm for 2:55 a.m. Dave’s side of the bed was cold. I peeked out the window.
He was across the street. At Betty’s house.
Betty had moved in after her divorce. She wore yoga pants like evening gowns and had a lawn that looked professionally manicured.
She opened the door in a red silk dress. Dave wrapped his arms around her. They kissed like teenagers.
I dove into the hallway closet before he returned. When he climbed back into bed, I whispered, “Where were you?”
“Bathroom,” he mumbled. “Been here the whole time.”
His hand was still warm from touching her.
Friday, I called in sick. I opened a new email account and researched divorce lawyers. That night, I recorded everything: the kiss, the touch, the lies.
For seven nights, I collected videos. On the eighth, I dropped a flash drive and retainer check at a law office downtown.
When Dave returned from his “trash run,” I asked, “How was the trash?”
He blinked. “Fine.”
“Good,” I said, closing my magazine.
Three weeks later, I handed him divorce papers over coffee.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your freedom.”
He stammered. I showed him the videos.
“How long?” he whispered.
“Pick your question,” I said. “I’ve got time.”
He begged to explain. I refused.
The lawyer said I had an airtight case. Community property, clear adultery, no prenup. The house was mine.
Dave moved in with Betty. She dumped him six weeks later for her contractor.
I changed the locks, planted flowers, and slept through the night.
Some mornings I woke up lonely — but never wondering if the person beside me was lying.
