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 Anonymous Text

That night Kevin went to shower and left his tablet on the desk. He was always careful with his phone, but he mainly used the tablet for reading news and watching movies, so he was more careless. However, he didn’t know that I had secretly synced his phone’s messages to the tablet a few days earlier, taking advantage of him falling asleep drunk.

I quickly checked the apps and stopped at the messages. A series of unread messages from “My Love” glowed in red. I opened the conversation, my heart pounding. They were messages from Amber. It seemed she was losing patience.

“How long are you going to keep stringing me along? You said your old wife was going to quit her job, that you were going to get a divorce. So why is she still so happy-go-lucky? I saw a photo of her with a client today laughing and having a good time. Are you going to sort this out or not? My belly is huge, the baby is about to be born, and if he doesn’t have a father, don’t blame me if I do something crazy.”

Then there was a voice message. I turned the volume down to the minimum and put it to my ear. Amber’s voice was shrill and full of resentment.

“I’m giving you one more week. If you don’t kick her out of the house, I’m coming to her company with this belly and making a scene. Let’s see if her perfect director image holds up then, and your department head position too. Don’t think I’m stupid.”

I put down the tablet and smiled bitterly. It turned out their love nest wasn’t as idyllic as it seemed. Amber was scared, jealous, and insecure. She was afraid I wouldn’t give up, that Kevin would deceive her. And most importantly, she knew nothing about the $500,000 inheritance trap Kevin was falling into. Kevin was caught between two fires: on one hand his greed for my assets, on the other the pressure from his mistress.

I knew I couldn’t wait for her to come to my office and make a scene. Although I didn’t care about my reputation, I needed time to complete the transfer of my assets and gather more evidence. I had to destabilize Amber even more, make her attack Kevin instead of me.

I took an old phone and a prepaid SIM card from a secret drawer. I wrote a message in the tone of someone who knew the situation and sent it directly to Amber.

“Hi Amber, I’m an acquaintance of Kevin’s. I see you’re pregnant and going through a tough time, so out of compassion, I’m warning you. Kevin has no intention of divorcing. His wife just inherited a $500,000 house and he’s conning her into putting it in his name too. You’re just a sidepiece to him. Wake up, girl, or your son will be born without a father and you’ll be left with the reputation of a homewrecker and empty-handed.”

After sending the message, I turned off the phone, broke the SIM, and flushed it down the toilet. I imagined Amber enraged, reading it. Suspicion is the poison that kills any relationship, especially one built on deceit.

Just 10 minutes later, I heard Kevin’s phone ringing in the bathroom. He didn’t answer. The phone stopped and then rang again with frantic insistence. Kevin turned off the shower and rushed out still wet. He grabbed the phone, looked at the screen, and his face changed. He glanced quickly in my direction, where I was turned away pretending to be asleep. He tiptoed out to the balcony and closed the glass door. Through the soundproof glass, I could see his agitation, his gestures as he tried to explain himself. Amber was surely giving him a piece of her mind, questioning him about the house. Kevin would have to work hard to calm her down, and in his panic, he was more likely to make mistakes.

A Narrow Escape

On Sunday morning, the atmosphere at home was strangely tense. Kevin got up very early, well-dressed, but the dark circles under his eyes betrayed a sleepless night. The argument with Amber was probably still echoing. He was drinking coffee, glancing at me occasionally with suspicion. Helen was making breakfast, muttering about going to church to pray for her grandson.

Right after breakfast, Kevin put down his mug and cleared his throat.

“Chloe, I have the day off today. I’m going to take you for a checkup, okay? You’ve been complaining about being tired lately, and I’m worried. I’ve arranged with a friend who’s the head of gynecology at a private hospital. He’s very good. We’ll go there for a full checkup, see if it’s a boy or a girl, and then we can tell your parents to make them happy.”

I choked on my toast. A checkup? And with a doctor friend of his? If I went there, my fake pregnancy would be exposed instantly. That hospital was famous for its technology; I couldn’t fool them. This was undoubtedly a trap from Kevin. He wanted to confirm the pregnancy, or worse, he and his doctor friend could conspire to do something to me.

“No, honey, I already went last week. The doctor said everything was normal. Besides, moving around so much tires me out. I’d rather stay home and rest.” I tried to excuse myself.

“No way,” Kevin replied with unusual harshness. “I don’t trust some random place. This one is trustworthy. I’ve already asked him as a favor. Get dressed, I’m going to get the car. Mom, you come too, it’ll be fun for you.”

Helen immediately joined in.

“Of course! Let’s go to the checkup, dear. I want to see my grandson’s little face too. We’ll go in our car. You don’t have to walk so you won’t get tired.”

They were cornering me. I knew I couldn’t refuse any longer. The more I resisted, the more suspicious they would become. I reluctantly agreed. I went to my room to get dressed, my mind racing to find a way out. I secretly slipped a small vial of dark red liquid into my purse. It was fake blood, something I had prepared just in case, a favor from a friend who works in special effects makeup.

The car started. The air inside was suffocating. Kevin drove with a serious face. Helen in the back seat wouldn’t stop talking about baby names. I was in the passenger seat, my hands on my belly, sweating profusely despite the air conditioning. Halfway there, in the busiest part of the city, I began my performance.

I winced in pain.

“Ouch! It hurts, honey, my stomach hurts so much!”

Kevin turned around startled.

“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

“It hurts so much! Like it’s being twisted inside!”

I hunched over clutching my abdomen and panting.

“Honey, I think… I think I’m bleeding.”

I discreetly squeezed the small packet in my pocket, letting a bit of the red liquid stain the seat. Helen leaned forward from the back and, seeing the stain on my light-colored dress, she screamed,

“Oh my god! Blood! Oh dear, my grandson!”

Kevin’s face drained of color. He almost hit the median.

“Chloe, calm down! I’m taking you to my friend right now!”

“No! We won’t make it! It’s too far!” I screamed, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I’m dying of pain! Let’s go to the nearest hospital! Save our son! Please, save our son!”

At that moment, the fear of losing his treasure and the half-million-dollar house overcame his plan. Helen also screamed,

“Kevin! Pull into that international hospital right there! Quickly! If anything happens to my grandson I’ll die!”

Kevin had no choice but to swerve and pull into the international hospital just a few yards away. His plan to take me to his doctor friend had failed. I slumped back in the seat, breathing a sigh of relief, thankful for my acting talent. But the next hurdle was the most important one: how would I fool the doctors at this hospital?

The car stopped at the emergency entrance. Kevin picked me up in his arms and ran inside. Helen followed, screaming as if the house were on fire. Nurses brought a gurney and took me to the emergency room. Kevin tried to follow, but a guard stopped him. Family must wait outside.

The emergency room door closed, isolating me from the chaos outside. Lying on the gurney, I quickly wiped my sweat. The doctor on duty was a middle-aged man. He looked at me professionally.

“Where does it hurt? Have you bled a lot?”

I knew I couldn’t keep pretending in front of a professional. I sat up and looked him in the eyes, speaking quickly and urgently.

“Doctor, please help me. Nothing is wrong with me. The blood is fake.”

The doctor was stunned, frowning.

“What are you saying? Are you joking in a hospital?”

“No, sir, I’m not joking.” I grabbed the sleeve of his coat. My tears were real now, tears of humiliation and fear. “My husband and his family are conspiring to harm me. They were forcing me to go to a doctor they know to do something shady. I had no other choice but to do this, to come here. Please, Doctor, help me. I need a report that says I have a threatened miscarriage and need complete bed rest.”

The doctor looked at me intently. His expression changed from doubt to surprise and then to compassion. He saw the faint bruises on my arms from accidental bumps at home, saw my haggard and distressed face. Perhaps in his years of practice he had seen many tragic stories.

“I cannot interfere in your family matters,” he said in a serious but less harsh voice. “But I am a doctor, and I only diagnose based on the truth. If you are not pregnant, I cannot write that you have a threatened miscarriage. It would be unethical.”

Desperate, I pulled a small, crumpled piece of paper from my bra: an ultrasound scan. It was my ace in the hole, a forgery I had asked Laura, my pharmacist friend, for just in case. The paper showed my name, a six-week pregnancy, a weak heartbeat, and a 10% placental abruption.

“Then, Doctor, could you give me some advice? I’ll tell them you examined me and this is the result. Please don’t give me away now. If they find out I’m not pregnant, they’ll kill me.”

The doctor took the fake ultrasound and sighed. He looked towards the door where Kevin was pacing like a caged animal, and then back at me, at the trembling woman before him. He finally gave a slight nod and handed me back the paper.

“I will note your real condition in your chart, but I will not say anything to your family. You go out and explain it yourself. I will only prescribe you vitamins and a mild sedative.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much.” I bowed, feeling a huge weight lifted.

15 minutes later, I walked out of the emergency room with difficulty, my hand on my belly and my face pale. Kevin and Helen rushed towards me.

“What happened? What did the doctor say? Is the baby okay?”

I handed Kevin the fake ultrasound. My voice was a broken whisper.

“The doctor says the pregnancy is very weak. That there’s a 10% placental abruption, a threatened miscarriage. He scolded me for moving around so much, for worrying too much. Now I have to stay in bed on complete rest. I can’t move or make any effort, otherwise…”

I burst into tears. Kevin took the paper with trembling hands. He didn’t understand the medical terms, but he saw the words “threatened miscarriage” and “guarded prognosis.” His face turned gray. The dream of the half-million-dollar house was crumbling. Helen beat her chest.

“My god! My grandson! It’s your fault for not taking care of yourself! I told you to stay home and you insisted on going to work!”

“Mom, shut up!” Kevin yelled, sweating. He was afraid my agitation would affect the pregnancy. “Home, right now. From now on, you stay in bed. I’ll bring you your food and drinks. If we lose the baby, don’t blame me for being cruel.”

I nodded and leaned on him to help me walk to the car. In the arms of my betrayer, I felt disgust, but also a deep satisfaction.