Mark and I had been married for seven years, and I believed we were solid—until our daughter, Sophie, innocently exposed a secret that shattered everything. We were at Mark’s promotion party, celebrating his big career move. Sophie, four and precocious, wore a puffy pink dress and clutched my hand as we mingled.

Everything felt perfect—until Sophie tugged my sleeve and loudly said, “Mommy, that’s the lady with the worms!” She pointed across the room to Tina, a colleague I vaguely remembered. When I asked what she meant, Sophie said, “The red ones. I saw them on her bed.” My heart stopped.

Later that night, I asked Mark about it. He claimed Sophie mistook curlers for worms during a brief visit to Tina’s for “work paperwork.” But when I pressed, his story unraveled. Why lie? Why tell our daughter not to say anything? He brushed me off, but I knew the truth was right in front of me.

I contacted Tina, pretending to plan a holiday mixer. We met for coffee, and she admitted everything. “He said it wouldn’t take long. Once you left, we could stop sneaking around,” she said. I stood up and replied, “He’s all yours.”

I filed for divorce quietly, securing custody and protecting Sophie. Mark didn’t fight it. He moved in with Tina, but Sophie refuses to visit unless Tina isn’t there. Their perfect romance isn’t so perfect anymore.

Now, it’s just Sophie and me. We laugh, paint stars on her ceiling, and sleep peacefully. One night, she said, “I’m glad we have no worms.” Me too, baby. Me too.