The first sign wasn’t a text or a late night at work—it was a pair of black lace panties left on my pillow. They were too small to be mine, too bold to be an accident. Instead of confronting my husband, I washed them and wore them like a twisted experiment.
His reaction said everything. He froze, stammered a compliment, and hid in the bathroom for 20 minutes. That’s when I knew: our seven-year marriage was over.
I spent the next month documenting his lies—changed passwords, mysterious charges, a “work trip” that led me to an apartment where another woman answered the door. But I didn’t scream or cry. I waited.
At our anniversary restaurant, I handed him a photo of himself with her. “You left her underwear in our bed,” I said calmly. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” His face crumpled as I walked out.
A year later, I’m in a cozy apartment with Dante, an old friend who makes me laugh without trying. My ex? He’s tangled in paternity drama with the same woman he swore was “just a fling.”
Those panties could’ve broken me. Instead, they set me free.
