The early months after our daughter, Lily, was born were a blur—diapers, sleepless nights, and a fatigue so intense I sometimes forgot who I was. Nate, my husband, stepped up more than I expected. Every evening, he offered to take Lily for a walk so I could rest. At first, I was grateful—those quiet 30-minute breaks felt like oxygen.
But gradually, something didn’t sit right. Nate always came home from those walks looking refreshed, lighter somehow—like he’d just had a massage or a great nap. I figured it was the peace and fresh air… but a small, persistent doubt crept in.
Then came the night he forgot his phone.
Nate never left his phone behind. It was practically an extension of his hand—buzzing with work updates, fantasy football, and family group chats. When I spotted it sitting on the counter after he left, my stomach tightened. I didn’t overthink. I just grabbed a hoodie, slipped on my sneakers, and quietly slipped out the back door, heart racing.
I trailed behind him, far enough to stay hidden but close enough to track him. He strolled down Maple Avenue, then veered onto a side street toward the park. That seemed normal. There was a walking trail and a small playground there. But then I saw her.
A tall brunette in jeans and a denim jacket, waiting at the park entrance. Nate walked straight up to her like it was routine. She smiled, brushed something from his sleeve, and he laughed. Then they walked side by side, the stroller between them—as if they were the couple.
I froze behind a bush, bile rising in my throat.
They didn’t kiss, but the familiarity between them was unmistakable. She touched his arm when she laughed. He said something that made her stop and place her hand on his chest. I couldn’t hear them, but I didn’t need to. My gut already knew.
When Nate came home twenty minutes later, I was in bed, feigning sleep. He kissed my forehead and whispered that Lily had dozed off. I kept still.
The next day, I made a plan.
I dug out an old baby doll from the attic—something from my childhood. I wrapped it in one of Lily’s blankets, and it looked close enough if you didn’t look too hard. I also tucked a small audio baby monitor into the stroller’s storage basket. I didn’t need to see. I wanted to hear.
That night, I told Nate Lily had just fallen asleep and asked him to wait ten minutes before heading out. I used the time to swap her for the doll and hide the monitor. Then I curled up on the couch, TV murmuring in the background, phone in hand—waiting.
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