The morning was chaos—burnt toast, missing socks, kids asking for snakes. My husband Jack, pale and hunched, muttered, “I’m taking a sick day.” Jack never stayed home. Not for anything.
Then I opened the door—and froze. Outside stood a life-sized white statue of Jack. Every detail perfect: the scar on his chin, the forced smile he wore when hiding pain.
Jack saw it and turned ghostly white. No questions—just dragged it inside and told me to take the kids to school. His hands trembled. His voice cracked.
As I buckled Ellie in, Noah handed me a note:
Jack,
I’m returning the statue I made while believing you loved me. Finding out you’re married destroyed me. You owe me $10,000—or your wife sees every message.
—Sally
That night, Jack passed out beside his glowing laptop. On it: all the proof. Every lie. I took screenshots—and contacted Sally.
She testified. I won custody, the house, and peace.
When Jack said, “I never meant to hurt you,” I replied:
“No. You just never meant to get caught.”
