Laundry was my quiet escape, but one evening it uncovered a devastating truth—a letter in my husband’s handwriting meant for someone else.

“Happy anniversary, babe! These 7 years have been the best of my life! Meet me at Obélix on Wednesday night, 8 p.m. Be in red.” The words weren’t for me—David and I had been married for 18 years.

My mind spiraled, recalling his late nights, hotel stays, and excuses I’d never questioned. I trusted him completely, yet this letter told a different story.

Instead of confronting him directly, I devised a plan. When he said he’d be working late, I dressed in a red gown he once bought me and went to the restaurant mentioned in the letter. There, I spotted a woman in red, likely his other “wife.”

David entered, his smile fading the moment he saw me. He had told the woman we were separated but co-parenting for the kids’ sake. Her confusion mirrored mine—how could she date him for years and not know the truth?

I left before he could explain, telling him to face our daughters himself. That letter ended our marriage. Though bitter at first, I later felt relief—it was the closure I didn’t know I needed.