I Was Just His Perfect Wife—Until I Followed Him… and Found I Wasn’t the Only One
My husband Kevin liked things his way.
And I was the only one who knew how to keep it that way.
I even made a checklist once. Not because I wanted to—but because I had to.
Kevin’s List:
🧅 No onions—ever—in sauces.
🥩 Steak—medium rare, thick cut, or else.
🌹 Roses—must bloom year-round, or “they look dead.”
👕 Shirts—ironed crisp, stiff collars.
🛏️ Bedsheets—hotel-white, not a single wrinkle.
🧽 Kitchen—so clean it sparkled. No crumbs.
🫖 Tea set—polished every Sunday, no excuses.
🌿 Herbs—only fresh, lined up on the windowsill.
I was always scared I’d forget something. A wrinkled napkin, the wrong herb, a saggy collar—anything could set him off. So I made voice recordings. Tiny reminders I whispered into my phone, like bedtime stories for the perfect wife.
They started as reminders for him.
But slowly… they became reminders for me.
That’s how this one came to life:
[Monday, 6:12 a.m.] Voice Recording 487:
“First run in five years. Feels like I’m running away from myself. Maybe I am.”
But rewind fifteen minutes…
I’d been up since 5 a.m., sweating over the ironing board, trying to make a pillowcase perfect. In four years of marriage, my “writing room”—the one where I used to write real stories, for a real newspaper—had become a linen closet.
I had given up everything for Kevin. My job. My voice. My dreams.
And he was satisfied.
“With hands like yours?” he told me. “You’re needed here more than anywhere else.”
Needed.
That word echoed in my head like a curse.
[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 fresh lilies.”
But that morning, something snapped.
Instead of digging out recipes, I pulled out my old sneakers.
No makeup. No hairbrush. Just me, my breath, and the icy street air.
I told myself I’d jog around the block. Come back. Fold towels.
I didn’t.
I turned the corner—and froze.
Kevin’s car was parked there.
Why? He always drove to work. It was his thing. So why was he sitting in his car? And why was he suddenly walking down the subway stairs?
No briefcase. No laptop. No reason.
[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 our too-clean kitchen. The curtains I’d ironed looked like strangers.
This wasn’t my home anymore. This was my post—like a soldier guarding a man who never came back.
[Monday, 8:03 a.m.] Voice Recording 490:
“Tomorrow — disguise. Found Dad’s old baseball cap, last year’s cheap sunglasses, big hoodie. Must blend in. Must not let him see me. Let’s see who he really kisses goodbye.”
The Next Day
He was gone when I woke up. I grabbed my disguise and walked two blocks. His car was there. Same place. Like clockwork.
I hid behind a trash bin that smelled like moldy pizza and someone’s broken dreams.
Kevin sat there, scrolling through his phone. Then… he smiled.
[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 left his car and took the Tube again.
So did I.
I stayed two cars behind. Far enough to stay invisible. Close enough to spy.
That’s when I saw her.
A girl. University backpack. She leaned into him.
He laughed.
He touched her knee.
And I…
I crumbled.
[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.”
But as I slipped into the next train car, something new happened.
I noticed someone else watching them.
A man.
Tall. Tan jacket. Tired eyes.
But he wasn’t watching Kevin.
He was watching her.
His jaw clenched when she giggled. His hands balled into fists.
[Tuesday, 7:32 a.m.] Voice Recording 494:
“The stranger’s watching her. WHO is he?”
They got off at the station. Went into a cheap café. I watched from across the street, pretending to scroll.
Then I noticed the stranger again.
He sat down one table away. Pretending to read a newspaper.
Upside down.
We made eye contact.
He raised an eyebrow.
I mouthed, “Wife.”
He mouthed, “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.”
We sat down together behind a potted plant inside the café. Just two betrayed people, hiding in plain sight.
He nodded at her. “She’s twenty-two. He’s…?”
“Forty,” I said.
“I’m Mark.”
“Rachel.”
He glanced at the recorder peeking from my sleeve. “Why are you even recording this?”
I clenched my jaw. “For the divorce. I want everything—his lies, his promises—on tape.”
“Good. Judges love timestamps,” he said.
Then he looked at his daughter again. “Her mom thinks I’m paranoid. Now she’ll see.”
We laughed—but it was hollow.
Shared Plan (on a napkin):
🎙️ Record everything
📸 Take pictures
☕ Catch every disgusting promise
[Tuesday, 7:55 a.m.] Voice Recording 496:
“Kevin: ‘I’ll leave her for you. Soon. You’re all I want.’
Her: ‘Come over tomorrow night — Mom’s on a business trip. You’ll love her house. On my B-day.’”
I took a photo of them kissing. Spoon dangling from her fingers. Sweet, sickening.
Mark leaned in. “Do you have a plan?”
“I’ll file for divorce.”
“That’s not enough,” he said. “People like them—they need to remember.”
I stared at him. “Maybe I do have a plan. But I’ll need your help.”
Mark’s lips curved just slightly. “Tell me what to do.”
Wednesday Night
[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’s ex-wife, Laura, met us at the door. Elegant. Cold. Suspicious.
“You brought his wife here? What is this?”
I stepped forward. “You need to hear what your daughter’s planning.”
She crossed her arms. “She’s just a kid.”
I played the recording.
“Come over tomorrow night — Mom’s on a business trip…”
Laura’s face turned white.
“I was going to give her college money next week. She was going to use my house to run away with him?”
She turned to me. “This is your husband. You let this happen!”
“I was just the one folding his shirts,” I whispered. “He made me invisible.”
Laura stared at me. Then nodded.
“Then we ruin them. Both.”
We hid in the dark guest room. Lights off. No one spoke.
[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.”
Keys rattled. The front door opened.
Laughter. Murmurs. Kisses.
Then—click—the lamp turned on.
Laura stood tall.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart. Hope you’re proud.”
The girl gasped. Kevin’s arm dropped like a hot coal.
Laura stepped closer. “You thought you’d use my house? On my dime? Think again.”
I walked out of the shadows.
“Hi, Kevin. I have every sweet lie you whispered. All recorded.”
His face turned to stone. “You wouldn’t—”
“Oh, I would. And that prenup you forgot about? You get nothing. Plus, that ten-thousand-dollar fine for cheating? I’ll see it every month, in writing.”
Laura faced her daughter. “You want to run away with your grown-up boyfriend? Go. But not with my money. Not with my house. Not with anything.”
Kevin tried to speak. But no one listened.
We left him standing in the wreckage of his own betrayal.
Mark met me at a café. Paper cups. Bitter coffee. Freedom.
[Wednesday, 7:59 p.m.] Voice Recording 500:
“Revenge tastes better than lemon tart. Note to self: when you need a partner in crime, pick someone who hates lies as much as you do.”
To be continued…