I Worked Three Jobs To Support My Paralyzed Mother-in-law. I Came Home Early And Found Her Dancing While My Husband Filmed Her. How Should I Get Revenge?
The Ivory Tower
That night I lay motionless in bed listening to Kevin’s steady breathing. I waited until he was deeply asleep after their celebratory feast and gently took his hand. I pressed his thumb on his phone’s fingerprint sensor. The screen lit up. I quickly went into his banking app, silencing the notifications so as not to make a sound.
I no longer checked his transfer history; I had enough proof of that. This time, I went to the notifications from his digital wallet and food delivery apps. Kevin used them a lot to order lunch or make small purchases. I scrolled through a long list of orders: fish stew for $8, roasted chicken for $15. These were for home, for me and Helen, to maintain the facade of care.
But interspersed were much more expensive orders delivered to another address: special infant formula for $30, a seafood platter for $150, a designer maternity dress for $80. All delivered to Apartment 1206, Park View Towers, on the Upper East Side. Park View Towers was a luxury apartment complex; the rent there was no less than $2,000 a month.
Where did Kevin get the money to rent that apartment and maintain his mistress in such luxury? Undoubtedly from the money he had been swindling from me, from the hidden funds he had accumulated, and from the fake debts he was planning to saddle me with. I memorized the address and put the phone back in its place.
The next morning, I took the morning off from work under the pretext of a prenatal checkup. Of course, I went alone to give my husband a surprise. I took a cab to Park View Towers. Standing in front of the imposing building, its glass windows reflecting the sun, I felt small and ridiculous. I, the legitimate wife, dressed simply, who drove an old car (if not taking a cab), living in a middle-class apartment I was paying for in installments. Meanwhile, my husband’s mistress, the one destroying my family, lived like a queen in this ivory tower, enjoying luxuries bought with my hard work.
I sat in a cafe across the street, keeping a close watch on the entrance. Around 10:00 a.m., a cab pulled up. Kevin got out, loaded with shopping bags. He was laughing and talking animatedly as he went around the car to open the door for a woman. Amber got out, heavily pregnant, wearing the designer dress I had seen in the order history.
She clung to Kevin’s arm coquettishly, and he helped her walk tenderly. His gaze, full of love and adoration, bent down to kiss her forehead and stroke her belly, saying something that made her laugh. That image was like a bucket of boiling water. This was the same man who the night before had sworn to take care of me and our future child, the same man who had given me pills to make me miscarry. The contrast between the model husband with his mistress and the monster trying to harm his wife made my stomach churn.
I took out my phone and took dozens of photos. I recorded a video of them entering the building lovingly. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from rage. Rage for having trusted, for having sacrificed myself so foolishly. Rage for how unfair life is to those who are sincere.
