I gave up journalism to be the perfect wife. Kevin liked things a certain way—no onions, medium-rare steak, polished tea sets. I became the silent shadow keeping his world pristine. I made lists, recorded reminders, and let my dreams collect dust like the spare linens stacked in the room where I used to write.

One morning, exhausted and invisible, I went for a run instead of folding towels. That’s when I saw Kevin’s car parked near the metro. Curious, I followed him. He was meeting someone—young, pretty, giggling—and he touched her like I didn’t exist. I recorded everything. But I wasn’t the only one watching.

A man in a tan jacket sat nearby. He wasn’t looking at Kevin—he was watching the girl. Her father. When our eyes met, he mouthed, “Father,” and I mouthed back, “Wife.” We joined forces. I shared recordings. He offered backup.

The next night, we confronted them. In her mother’s house. Lights off. Recorders on. When Kevin and the girl entered laughing, we turned on the lamp. Her mom stepped forward. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. Hope you’re proud.” Kevin turned pale. I played the tape. Adultery meant he got nothing under our prenup.

Her mom cut off the college funds. I walked out with my dignity intact—and a good lawyer on speed dial. Kevin would pay me monthly, with interest.

Later, over cheap coffee, the girl’s father said, “Revenge suits you.”

I smiled. “Tastes better than lemon tart.”