The relentless rain of the Pacific Northwest never ceased its rhythmic pounding on my Bellevue porch. Inside my modern log cabin, everything was perfect: from the expensive cream-colored sofa to the subtle scent of lavender essential oil. But beneath that perfect exterior, my heart was bleeding.

My daughter, Lily, had just turned two. She was an angel with curly blonde hair just like her father—David. David was a successful architect, the man my friends called “the quintessential American husband.” He was tall, composed, and always knew how to choose the most vibrant roses for every anniversary.

But for the past three months, David had begun to change.

Late nights at the office became more frequent. Unexpected weekend business trips became commonplace. And most painfully, the nights he would leave bed at 2 a.m., whispering into the garage phone before driving away. He thought I was fast asleep from the effects of the postpartum sedatives, but I was wide awake. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds until the sound of his Tesla engine faded away in the street.

I didn’t make a fuss. I didn’t throw his clothes out the window or scream like the women in those TV dramas. I had Lily. I had to protect her future.

The Terrifying Silence
Every morning, David came home smelling of a strange perfume—a sickeningly sweet scent of Marc Jacobs for young women, not the elegant Chanel I usually wore. He would kiss my forehead, pick Lily up, and ask, “Honey, I had to deal with the construction site problem last night, did you sleep well?”

I smiled, a smile I’d practiced in front of the mirror for hours. “I slept very well, honey. Your coffee’s on the table.”

For those three months, I wasn’t just a housewife. I was a hunter. I started gathering evidence. I hired a private investigator—who sent me pictures of David embracing a young woman, only about 22, at a luxury apartment in downtown Seattle. She was an intern at his company.

I started gradually withdrawing our joint savings into a separate account in my mother’s name. I contacted the best divorce lawyer in Washington state. And most importantly, I prepared for his “35th Birthday Party.”

The Fateful Birthday Party
David’s birthday came on a foggy Saturday evening. I invited everyone: his parents flew in from Chicago, our major business partners, our closest friends, and of course, the “intern”—the one I’d sent an invitation to as a “guest of honor from the company.”

The mansion was brightly lit. Wine flowed freely, and laughter filled the air. David looked radiant. He held my hand, proudly introducing me to his business partners as “the wonderful wife who has been behind his success.”

When it was time to cut the cake, I stepped onto the small platform in the middle of the living room. Everyone fell silent, waiting for a moving speech.

“Thank you all for being here today,” I said, my voice strangely calm. “David, the past 10 years have been a long journey. And to celebrate your 35th birthday, I have a special gift. Not a Rolex watch or a golf outing. I have 10 sheets of paper I want to share with you and everyone here.”

I pulled 10 clearly printed A4 sheets of paper from a black envelope. I gave the first to my father-in-law, the second to David’s biggest business partner, and the rest to the friends seated at the front table.

Ten “Death Papers”
The room fell into a deathly silence as they began to read.

Page 1: A screenshot of the GPS location of David’s car stopping at his mistress’s apartment every night for the past 90 days.

Page 2: Bank statements showing David used Lily’s education funds to buy a Tiffany necklace for his mistress.

Page 3: The “racy” text messages David sent at 3 a.m., while I was holding a feverish Lily in the next room.

Page 4: A photo of David and the intern (standing pale in the corner) passionately kissing on a beach in Hawaii during a “business trip” last month.

Page 5: The apartment rental contract in David’s name, which he paid for for her.

Page 6: The results of an infectious disease test I secretly took after suspecting him.

Page 7: A list of instances where he lied about working overtime, compared with hotel bills.

Page 8: A signed statement from the private investigator.

Page 9: My pre-signed divorce petition.

Page 10: A photograph of Lily sleeping, with the caption below: “Dad traded your future for a few hours of pleasure.”

David’s face turned from crimson to deathly pale, then ashen. His father, a stern man, stood up and threw the paper in his son’s face before leaving without a word.

The young mistress fled the door in humiliation.

The End
I looked at David, the man I once loved more than life itself, now looking pathetic amidst the pieces of paper.