My husband’s “business trips” always ended in rosy selfies he claimed were from clients.
The lighting was always too warm. The background too casual.
Yesterday, I finally checked the GPS pings on his phone.
They didn’t lead to another city. They circled around a local Airbnb.
I waited until he showered and opened his suitcase.
Tucked between folded shirts was a silk scarf—delicate, floral, and monogrammed.
Not with my initials.
I felt like I’d swallowed glass.
I typed the initials into Instagram, just to see.
One account popped up. Public.
Her profile picture matched the scarf—she wore it in three different posts.
I scrolled.
My husband was in the background of one photo, barely noticeable—pouring wine.
The caption read: “My favorite weekend escape. You know who you are 💋”
I stared at the screen, my hands shaking.
He said he was in Shenzhen that weekend.
She tagged a restaurant in our neighborhood.
I clicked deeper.
She was a yoga instructor. Lived 20 minutes away.
I created a burner account. Sent her a message: “Do you know he’s married?”
She replied: “Married to me?”
I said nothing. Just sent her our wedding photo.
She went silent for hours.
Then I got another message: “He told me his wife died.”
My breath left me.
He’d been living two stories. One life with me. One with her.
I asked if we could meet. She said yes.
We sat across from each other in a coffee shop, two women piecing together the same puzzle.
She showed me screenshots. His pet names. His promises.
He told her I was just “an old chapter.”
He told me she was “just work.”
We made a plan.
The next day, he came home to candlelight and two wine glasses.
He smiled. “What’s the occasion?”
I said, “Sit down. We’re celebrating your storytelling skills.”
Then the doorbell rang.
She walked in. Wearing the scarf.
He went pale.
Tried to speak. Failed.
She tossed the scarf at him and said, “I hope your lies were worth it.”
He looked at me.
But I just raised my glass and said, “To closure.”
She walked out first. I followed.
We both blocked him that night.
And the next morning, I filed for divorce.
Not out of anger. But clarity.
Because love without truth is just a performance.
And I refuse to be part of his play.