On Lucas’s first day of first grade, I wanted it perfect. My husband, Travis, was supposed to join us but showed
up late and distant. I walked Lucas in alone. When I returned to drop off his water bottle,
I heard his teacher call, “Jamie, sweetheart,” and Lucas went to her happily. Travis showed no reaction, but my stomach turned.
After school, Travis said he was taking Lucas to his mother’s for a “father-son night.” Suspicious, I followed in a taxi—to a house
I didn’t know. Lucas ran straight to the backyard pool, as if familiar. Then a blonde woman, his teacher, kissed Travis.
When I confronted them, Lucas revealed Travis told him to answer to “Jamie” because the teacher had lost a son with that name.
He bribed Lucas with candy to play along. To her, it was “comfort.” To me, it was betrayal—Travis had cheated and used our child to build a fake family.
I didn’t yell. Instead, I told my mother-in-law, who adored Lucas, everything. In the end, I got the house,
child support, and my freedom. Travis was left to watch his carefully constructed life fall apart.
