On my son Lucas’s first day of school, everything felt off. I had ironed his shirt and packed his bag, while my husband, Travis, was passed out on the couch again. He promised he’d show up for drop-off—but didn’t. So I walked Lucas in alone. He was excited, nervous, and brave. That’s when it happened. His teacher smiled and said, “Jamie, sweetheart, can you help me with these?” And Lucas responded like it was his name. My blood ran cold.

I asked Lucas about it, but Travis brushed it off—too quickly. After school, instead of our planned ice cream trip, Travis said he was taking Lucas to his mother’s. But something didn’t sit right. I followed them in a cab. They didn’t go to his mom’s—they went to a beautiful house. Lucas ran straight to the pool like he’d been there before. Then a blonde woman stepped out and kissed Travis.

It was his teacher. The one who called Lucas “Jamie.”

I watched in shock until I fell into the yard, covered in poison ivy. That’s when everything spilled out. Lucas admitted they’d been “playing a game”—pretending he was “Jamie” to make Jenna, the teacher, feel better after losing her son. Travis stood there like it was normal.

I went to Travis’s mother first. She adored Lucas and was horrified by what Travis had done. That gave me power.

I didn’t take revenge. I took control. The house. Support. My freedom. And I left Travis to watch it all crumble.