Budgeting has always been my thing. I track every household transaction, every dollar, every cent. It’s not about control—it gives me peace. Numbers make sense. They’re logical, predictable. Unlike people. Unlike my husband, Eric.
That Friday night, like every other, I sat at the dining table with a glass of wine, going through our bank statements. Mortgage. Utilities. Groceries. Everything was neatly categorized. But then, my eyes caught something odd—a $380 transaction. It wasn’t a store I recognized. It wasn’t groceries. It wasn’t gas.
I took a slow sip of wine, staring at the screen. One big purchase, out of nowhere.
Eric was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. The scent of garlic and olive oil filled the air. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and for a moment, I looked at him the way I used to—with warmth, with trust.
“Hey, did you make a big purchase recently?” I asked, keeping my voice light. “There’s a $380 charge on our card.”
His knife paused mid-chop. Just for a second. Then it resumed its steady rhythm. “Probably just gas and groceries. Why?”
“It was one transaction. Not multiple small ones.”
“Maybe I filled up the tank and grabbed some stuff at the store the same day.”
“It’s from a place I don’t recognize.”
The chopping stopped. His shoulders tensed beneath his t-shirt.
“Why are you interrogating me like I’m on trial, Luna?”
A cold sensation spread through my chest.
“I’m not interrogating you. I’m asking about our shared account. Like I always do.”
He slammed the knife down. “You’re always so paranoid. Just because you’re the ‘budget person’ doesn’t mean I need to report every little thing I do.”
Sharp words. Unfamiliar words. Words that made me feel like a stranger in my own marriage.
“Since when is asking about a $380 expense being paranoid?”
“Just drop it, okay? Not everything needs your approval.”
That night, I lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. Listening to his steady breathing. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.
Something wasn’t right.
The next morning, we were supposed to switch cars. I had a salon appointment later, and Eric had taken the day off for what he called a “mental health day.”
“Don’t forget,” he said over coffee. “Your appointment is at four, right?”
I nodded, forcing a smile. “I’ll clean your car out before I take it.”
By noon, the unease hadn’t faded. While Eric was in the shower, I called my sister.
“Am I crazy, Jen? He acted like I accused him of murder.”
“People get weird about money, darling,” she said. “But defensiveness? That usually means something’s up.”
When Eric went back to the couch to watch TV, I made my move. I grabbed his car keys and slipped outside.
The interior smelled like his cologne—that same woodsy scent he’d worn since college. I reached for the glove compartment, meaning to tuck the registration away.
That’s when I saw it.
A crumpled receipt. Partially hidden beneath the car manual.
I unfolded it, and my heart stopped.
$379.89. Stroller + Car Seat Combo. Tiny Treasurezz.
A baby store.
My hands turned ice cold. We didn’t have a baby. We weren’t expecting one. And we weren’t even trying.
Tiny Treasurezz. The boutique in Ridgewood Heights. Ten minutes from where his coworker Rachel lived.
Rachel. Pretty, pregnant Rachel. The one I met once at the company holiday party. The one Eric had mentioned was “doing it all on her own.”
The pieces clicked together in a way that made my stomach churn.
I rushed back inside. The shower was still running. I grabbed Eric’s phone from the nightstand—it was unlocked.
I scrolled through his contacts.
Rachel.
I saved the number to my phone, put his back exactly where I found it, and stepped outside into the backyard.
I pressed call.
Three rings.
“Hello?”
“Rachel? This is Luna. Eric’s wife.”
Silence. Then, a sharp intake of breath.
“I… I know this is strange, but I need to talk to you. It’s important. Please don’t mention this to Eric.”
A long pause. Then: “Okay. When?”
“Today. Cloudsidez Café. Four o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
I ended the call and stared at the sky, trying to keep my world from tilting completely out of control.
Rachel arrived at the café right on time. She looked cautious, wary. Seven, maybe eight months pregnant.
I placed the receipt on the table between us.
Her eyes widened. “Oh god.”
“Why is my husband buying you a stroller?”
She looked at me, pure confusion on her face. “Your husband? Eric told me you two were separated. That you moved out months ago.”
The air was sucked from my lungs. “WHAT??”
“He said you were in denial about the divorce. That he was just helping you transition. He’s been staying with me three nights a week.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“We’ve been married five years,” I whispered. “I live with him. Every day.”
Rachel covered her mouth. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
I exhaled sharply. “You weren’t the other woman. You were just another woman he lied to.”
Her voice was small. “What do we do now?”
I straightened. “We make sure he never gets the chance to lie to either of us again.”
That evening, I packed a bag.
“Where are you going?” Eric asked from the couch, not even looking up.
“My sister’s. Overnight.”
“Right. Drive safe.”
No “I’ll miss you.” No “Come back soon.”
The next morning, Rachel and I met at her place. She pointed to a large wrapped box in her living room. “I figured we might as well use the stroller.”
At 11:05, Eric walked in.
“Rach? Where’s my beautiful girl? I bought cinnamon rolls from—”
He stopped dead.
I smiled. “Surprise!”
His face went pale. “Luna?! What are you…??”
“Explain how you’re married to me while promising Rachel a future.”
Rachel’s voice was sharp. “Explain this.” She slid the receipt across the table.
Eric swallowed hard. “This is… complicated.”
“No, it’s actually quite simple,” I said. “You lied. And now, we’re done.”
Rachel crossed her arms. “Leave. Now.”
Eric looked between us, panicked. “You’re making a mistake.”
I smiled coldly. “The mistake was ever trusting you.”
I walked out that door, feeling lighter than I had in years.
Because sometimes, losing what you thought you had makes room for what you truly deserve.
