On our 12th anniversary, everything felt perfect—until I saw a message on Jason’s phone: “Already missing the way you smell.” I asked him about it, heart racing. He sighed and said, “You wouldn’t get it.” That was the moment something shifted inside me. I smiled, grabbed my keys to pick up the kids… and started planning.

For days, I pretended. I cooked dinner, laughed at his jokes, kissed him goodbye. But every laugh from him felt like a betrayal. That night, I waited until he was asleep, found his phone hidden under his pillow, and unlocked it. The thread with Claire revealed lingerie photos, hotel timestamps, and messages about how “alive” she made him feel. Claire wasn’t just some random woman—she was Emma’s school guidance counselor.

I stayed quiet. Instead, I took screenshots, emailed them to myself, and acted like nothing had happened. I hired a lawyer, reviewed finances, and quietly prepared. The SUV and house were in my name. I opened a private account. Claire had told me to “call her Cee” once. I trusted her with my daughter’s emotions—while she was sleeping with my husband.

At the school’s open house, I handed Jason a box. Inside were the photos and messages. “You were right—I didn’t get it. Not until now.” He stammered apologies, but I was already gone. Claire lost her job. Jason moved into a motel.

The kids are healing. We’re okay. Jason texted recently, saying, “You didn’t have to destroy both of us.”

I deleted it. Because he destroyed us first—and I chose peace.