I gave up my dreams to keep my husband’s secrets spotless. But when I chased after him to catch him cheating, I found out I wasn’t the only one spying on him.
My husband, Kevin, liked things done a certain way.
The way only I knew how to do.
To keep track, I once made myself a little list. It was my secret weapon to keep everything perfect for him.
HUBBY’S List
- 🧅 No onions in any sauce. Ever.
- 🥩 Steak — medium rare, thick cut only.
- 🌹 Roses in the garden — must bloom all year round.
- 👕 Shirts ironed perfectly, collars stiff.
- 🛏️ Bedsheets — snow-white, hotel crisp.
- 🧽 Kitchen spotless, no crumbs on counters.
- 🫖 Tea set polished every Sunday.
- 🌿 Herbs by the window — fresh, never dried.
I was always scared I might forget something. One missing ingredient, one wrinkled napkin — anything that might disappoint him. So, I made tiny voice recordings all the time.
Little commands I played back at night like bedtime stories for a perfect wife. Sometimes, I listened just to remind myself I was still needed by Kevin.
But then, slowly, I started to appear in those recordings too. My thoughts, my feelings, my fears.
That’s how my very first recording meant only for me was born.
[Monday, 6:12 a.m.] Voice recording 487:
“First run in five years. Feels like I’m running away from myself. Maybe I am.”
Fifteen minutes before that, I’d been standing at the ironing board since 5 a.m., pressing yet another pillowcase.
In four years of marriage, my little library room — the place where I used to write inspiring articles — was now piled high with spare linens.
I quit my writing job myself. I still remember how Kevin was proud of my choice.
“With hands like yours? You’re needed here more than anywhere else,” he said once.
And honestly, I really was needed. At home. Always.
[Monday, 7:15 a.m.] Voice recording 488:
“Kevin left for work. Kissed my cheek. No eye contact. Ordered grilled veggies, steak, and a lemon tart for dinner. Must buy groceries. Note to self: get new fresh lilies.”
Right after that recording, something inside me broke.
I was so tired of being needed by the oven and the mop… but not by my husband.
So instead of pulling out recipes to cook dinner, I pulled on my old sneakers.
No makeup. No hairbrush.
Just me, the cold street, and the sharp morning air.
I thought I’d run around the block to feel something. Anything.
But when I reached the corner where our quiet lane meets the busy main road, I froze.
Oh God. Could it be…?
Kevin’s car was there. Parked. Engine off.
I hid behind a tree like a fool.
What was I hoping to see?
A few minutes later, Kevin got out — no briefcase, no laptop, nothing — and slipped down the metro stairs.
[Monday, 7:38 a.m.] Voice recording 489:
“Kevin took the Tube. He always said he drives straight to the office. Why lie about a train? Where is he really going?”
Hours later, I was back in the kitchen, staring at the plates and the freshly ironed curtains.
And then it hit me.
This was NOT my home anymore.
This was just my job.
I’m the housekeeper no one pays.
The ghost folding the towels.
While my husband carries secrets in his pocket.
[Monday, 8:03 a.m.] Voice recording 490:
“Tomorrow — disguise. Found Dad’s old baseball cap, last year’s cheap dark sunglasses, big hoodie. Must blend in. Must not let him see me. Let’s see who he really kisses goodbye.”
The next morning, Kevin was gone when I stepped out.
I walked two blocks down the street. And there it was — his car, in the same spot, waiting.
I crouched behind a sad trash bin that smelled like stale coffee and cheap perfume.
Kevin sat in the driver’s seat, scrolling his phone. Then he smiled.
God, that smile!
[Tuesday, 6:57 a.m.] Voice recording 492:
“He’s waiting. Smiles at his phone. Who makes him smile like that?”
Five minutes later, he walked to the Tube like it was his usual routine.
I waited.
Then I followed.
Two cars behind. Just close enough to see. Not close enough to be seen.
On the platform, I saw HER.
A young woman with a university backpack.
She leaned into him.
My heart cracked like old glass.
[Tuesday, 7:18 a.m.] Voice recording 493:
“There she is. He has a type: young, soft, bright. Nothing like the woman ironing his sheets at home.”
I slipped into the next train car and kept my head down.
Kevin rested his hand on her knee.
She giggled.
I wanted to vomit, but I forced myself to focus.
Mini To-Do List:
✅ Don’t cry
✅ Keep phone low, record if they talk
They got off after five stops.
I stayed hidden behind an old man with a cane.
But I wasn’t the only one following.
There HE was.
A tall man in a tan jacket with tired eyes.
He wasn’t looking at Kevin.
He was watching HER.
When she turned, he turned.
When she laughed, his jaw clenched.
[Tuesday, 7:32 a.m.] Voice recording 494:
“The stranger’s watching her. WHO is he?”
They ended up in a cheap café near the station.
I stood across the street, pretending to scroll on my phone.
I took a blurry photo — proof.
The tall man sat at the next table, pretending to read a newspaper held upside down.
Our eyes met.
His brow lifted.
You too? he asked silently.
I mouthed: “Wife.”
He mouthed back: “Father.”
[Tuesday, 7:42 a.m.] Voice recording 495:
“Her father. Here to see who’s wasting her future. I’m here to see who’s wasting mine.”
I crossed the street in four minutes.
We slipped behind a fat marble column near the café counter, hidden behind a fake potted palm.
It was perfect.
No one could see us.
And finally, we spoke the words no one else dared to say.
We didn’t look at each other.
Just at them.
“She’s twenty-two. He’s…?” I asked.
“Forty,” the man answered.
He rubbed his neck.
“I’m Mark.”
“Rachel,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Rachel. I guess.”
He glanced down at the tiny black recorder peeking out from my sleeve.
His eyes narrowed just a little.
“Why are you even recording this?”
I clenched my jaw.
“For the divorce. I want his promises on tape. Lies, dates, faces. All of it.”
“Good. Keep it all. Judges love the truth when it’s got a timestamp.”
I looked at him.
“What about you?”
His eyes flicked back to his daughter giggling in her boyfriend’s lap.
“Proof she’s not some innocent princess. Her mother thinks I’m controlling. Let her see who our daughter really skips class for. She wants her freedom? She can pay her own rent.”
We both let out a laugh that died before it reached our lips.
Shared Plan (scribbled on a napkin):
🎙️ Keep recording — every lie is ammo for court.
📸 Take pictures — real faces, real moments, no excuses.
☕ Catch every promise they’ll regret.
I pressed my phone to my bag and hit record.
[Tuesday, 7:55 a.m.] Voice recording 496:
“Kevin: ‘I’ll leave her for you. Soon. You’re all I want.’
Her: ‘Daddy doesn’t get it. I want you. Come over tomorrow night — Mom’s on a business trip. You’ll love her big fancy house just for us. On my B-day.’”
I glanced back through the café window, then unlocked my phone.
I slid my finger to the camera.
No shutter sound.
One quick shot.
Kevin and his little princess kissing, her spoon still dangling from her fingers.
I felt Mark watching me.
“Do you have a plan?”
“I’ll file for divorce.”
“That’s not enough. They’ll find new ways to lie. People like them always do. You want to make them remember this — every time they think about betraying someone again.”
His words hung there, strangely right.
“Maybe, I do have a plan… But you’ll have to help me play it out.”
Mark’s mouth curved just slightly.
“Tell me what to do.”
“We need to meet your ex-wife.”
[Wednesday, 6:58 p.m.] Voice recording 498:
“I’ve never been here before. I should feel like an intruder. But I don’t. Maybe this is where I get my life back.”
Mark met me at the gate.
He led me up the stone path, under the warm porch light.
Inside, she was waiting.
Laura. His ex-wife.
Her eyes darted between Mark and me.
Confused. Suspicious. Then wounded.
“You brought his wife here? You two plan to pin this on me?”
I stepped forward.
“No. I just needed you to know what your daughter’s been doing.”
Laura scoffed.
“She’s nineteen, she’s a child. She’d never…”
Mark shoved the photo forward — the one I’d taken through the café window.
Then I played the voice recording.
“Come over tomorrow night — Mom’s on a business trip…”
Laura pressed a hand over her mouth.
“I was going to give her the rest of her college money next week. As a birthday surprise. And she was going to run away with… with him?”
Then she turned on me, anger sparking.
“This is your husband! How did you let him…”
My throat tightened.
“I was… no one. His housekeeper. His cook. His crisp white sheets. That’s it.”
Laura stared at me.
“Then we punish them both. You’re not the only one he made a fool of.”
We sat in the big guest room.
Mark turned off the lights.
The house fell silent.
I clutched my phone tight.
Next to me, Laura’s perfume smelled expensive and furious.
[Wednesday, 7:48 p.m.] Voice recording 499:
“Waiting in the dark. They think they’re coming home to romance. We’ve prepared something better.”
Suddenly, keys rattled.
A low laugh.
A hush.
Whispered words like silk.
We heard them shuffle into the living room.
Bags dropped.
Shoes kicked off.
That’s when Mark flicked on the lamp.
One harsh yellow glow like a prison spotlight.
Laura stood up first.
Her voice sliced the room in half.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart. Hope you’re proud.”
The girl froze.
Kevin’s arm dropped from her shoulder so fast it looked like he’d been burned.
“Mom…”
“Don’t. Not a word.”
Kevin’s mouth opened, but his words tumbled out uselessly.
Laura laughed.
“You were going to use my house for your filthy game? My money to run away? You’ll see a single cent from me the day pigs fly.”
I stood up too.
“I have all your sweet promises, Kevin. On tape. And your lawyer will explain our prenup in detail, the one you thought I’d never read.”
Kevin’s face turned chalky.
“You wouldn’t…”
“Oh, I would. Adultery means you get nothing. And that ten-thousand-dollar penalty clause? You can pay it to me in monthly checks. From your precious savings.”
Laura turned to her daughter.
“And you. No college money. No rent. No car. Go live with your ‘grown-up boyfriend’ if you love him so much. See how long he keeps you when he’s broke.”
I looked at Mark.
He didn’t smile.
He just nodded once.
Father to mother to wife.
And we finally left the house.
I didn’t want to go home yet.
Not while my almost-ex was there, stuffing shirts into suitcases he’d once ordered me to iron.
So Mark offered me coffee.
Just strong, cheap coffee in a paper cup —
And ten minutes of not feeling like a ghost.
[Wednesday, 7:59 p.m.] Voice recording 500:
“Guess revenge does taste better than lemon tart. Note to self: when you ever need a partner in crime, pick someone who hates lies as much as you do.”
To be continued…