I trusted my husband, Thomas, more than anyone. At church, he was admired as a “godly man.” He led Bible study, sang in the choir even when sick, and preached about honesty and faith to young fathers. So, when he told me he was going on a men’s church camping retreat, I happily helped him pack—tent, boots, sleeping bag, and Bible included. He kissed our kids goodbye and left with a smile.

Later that morning, while fixing our son’s bike, I went into the garage and froze. Every single camping item I packed for Thomas was still there, untouched. My stomach dropped. When I texted him for a photo, he replied that service was bad, and he had just pitched his tent. I knew he was lying. To confirm, I asked Gary’s wife, whose husband was supposedly on the same trip. She told me Gary was in Milwaukee for work—and didn’t even own a tent.

Shaking, I opened “Find My iPhone” and saw Thomas’s location. He wasn’t at a campsite. He was at a downtown hotel. Room 214. I quickly arranged a babysitter, packed a bag, and drove straight there.

At the hotel, I knocked softly. Thomas opened the door in a robe. Behind him, a young woman laughed in bedsheets, champagne in hand. I handed him an envelope with his location screenshot, a photo of the untouched camping gear, and a divorce attorney’s card. He stammered for words.

On the bedside table sat his Bible, covered by a red bra. My heart broke. “This is your altar,” I whispered, before walking away.

That night, I tucked my kids into bed and promised them the truth. Because love isn’t performance, and faith isn’t a disguise. Trust, once broken, can’t be preached back.