I gave up everything to keep my husband happy—his meals, shirts, garden. I kept lists of his preferences,

not because he asked, but because getting them wrong changed the mood at home. Secretly, I recorded voice

memos—tiny windows to my true feelings. After one jog, I whispered, “Feels like I’m running away from myself.”

That same day, I saw his car parked blocks from home. Curious, I followed. He sat smiling at his phone,

then walked to the metro. A young woman joined him—laughing, touching his knee.

I wasn’t the only one watching. A man nearby locked eyes with me. I mouthed, “Wife.” He answered, “Father.”

His name was Mark. The woman—his daughter. We made a plan: collect evidence and confront them.

When we played our recordings to her mother, Laura, she paled. “I was about to give her her college fund.”

We waited at Laura’s house. When the couple walked in, we flipped on the lights.

“Happy birthday,” Laura said coldly.
I added, “Cheating voids your payout. You’ll pay me now.”

Laura finished: “No more college fund. Go play house with your grown man.”

Later, Mark and I sat silently at a café. Free at last. My final memo? “Revenge tastes better than lemon tart.”