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 Double Life

I remembered the sums of money Kevin had asked me for lately: $100 for a cousin’s wedding gift, $300 to fix the car, $80 for some medicinal herbs for his mother. Those small amounts, when put together, suddenly seemed much more suspicious. Perhaps my hard-earned money wasn’t for fixing cars or buying medicine, but for fattening up another woman and the child she carried in her womb. Switch wives.

I sketched a cold smile in the dark. Let’s see, when this roof collapses, who will be the first to be crushed?

The next afternoon, the air in the office was cool thanks to the central air conditioning, but my heart burned as if I were sitting on hot coals. I hid in a quiet corner of the breakroom with my phone in hand, my eyes glued to the screen broadcasting live from the cameras at home. The city’s bustle seemed distant; all that remained was the frantic beating of my heart.

Helen, my pitiful, bedridden mother-in-law, was performing a daily scene that, had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed. On the phone screen, Helen was walking briskly through the living room eating a pastry while watching TV. Every now and then, she would kick the robot vacuum because it got in her way.

She muttered,

“This useless thing just keeps spinning around and getting in the way. It’s just wasting electricity for nothing.”

Seeing her so healthy and agile, I remembered her trembling appearance from the night before when I had to feed her broth spoonful by spoonful, and an indescribable bitterness washed over me. It turned out my kindness and filial respect were just a toy for her entertainment.

At that moment, Kevin’s phone rang in the video. He had come home for lunch. Through the camera, I saw Kevin answer the phone hurriedly, his voice changed completely, becoming sweet and doing very different from the brusque tone he usually used with me lately.

He said,

“Yes, I know, my love. Eat well so our little one grows strong. Don’t worry about a thing. I just told Chloe to give me another $500 for Mom’s medicine. I’ll transfer it to you tomorrow so you can go buy things for the baby.”

I heard every word with a clarity that pierced my ears like needles. Chloe, my name, pronounced by my husband’s mouth with such contempt. The $500 for his sick mother’s medicine and care that I myself had withdrawn from my savings account that very morning turned out to be for supporting his mistress.

I turned off the phone screen. My hands were shaking so much that I nearly spilled my glass of water on the table. The feeling of being betrayed didn’t hurt as much as the feeling of being belittled, turned into a workhorse that toiled tirelessly to feed the happiness of others.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I opened my banking app and began to review all transactions from the last six months. Before, out of trust in my husband, I rarely checked small expenses. But now, with the veil of secrecy lifted, those inert numbers suddenly came to life.

$100, $300, $80. Transfers with descriptions like “repaying a loan to a friend,” “gift for family back home,” or “buying medicinal herbs” appeared with alarming frequency. The total sum amounted to several thousand, a considerable amount for a junior accountant.

I asked a friend who worked at a bank to investigate the most frequently recurring account number. Just 15 minutes later, I received a message with the name: Amber Gomez.

Trembling, I entered the phone number associated with that account into the Facebook search bar. A profile appeared. The profile picture was of a beautiful, smiling young woman cradling her pregnant belly. I scrolled through her posts. Photos of Amber at fancy restaurants, at expensive resorts where Kevin had told me he was going for work. She boasted about expensive gifts, huge bouquets of roses on special dates, accompanied by ambiguous messages about a late-found happiness and a responsible man.

The most painful was a photo of designer baby booties with the caption: “A gift from daddy for our little one. We love you, Daddy.” K for Kevin. There was no doubt.

I looked at my own worn heels, the old purse I had been using for three years without daring to replace it. A feeling of deep indignation washed over me. I had saved every penny, I had sacrificed my most basic personal needs to build this family, and it turned out my hard work was going into a third party’s pocket to support my husband’s child with another woman.

The stark truth before me prevented me from crying. The tears seemed to have dried up, leaving room for a fire of resentment that burned slowly. I took screenshots of all the evidence and saved them in a secret folder in the cloud.