My Husband’s Driver Warned Me Not To Get In The Car. I Followed Him To A Secret House And Found Him Playing ‘daddy’ With Another Woman. How Do I Take Him Down?

The Secret Envelope

For a whole year, in secret, I had been helping my husband’s elderly driver with money, a man he had fired without a cent. Today, he intercepted me by the store and whispered:

“Tomorrow, do not get in the car with your husband. Take the bus. It’s a matter of life and death. You will understand everything when you see who is on that bus.”

And so, I got on the bus.

But before that whisper turned her life upside down, it was just another Tuesday, a gray day that smelled of dust and detergent. Carol stood by the cash register of the HomeGoods store, mechanically arranging a stack of terry towels.

She was 38, but in the reflection of the store window under the fading afternoon light, she saw a much older woman. Her shoulders, used to carrying heavy boxes of merchandise, were slightly stooped, and shadows had settled in the corners of her eyes that no cream could erase.

“Carol, dear, ring this tablecloth up for me too,” a regular customer, an elderly woman in a beige coat, rasped. “But check it for snags, will you? After last time.”

“Of course, Mrs. Gable,” Carol’s voice was soft with a familiar, reassuring calm.

She unfolded the fabric, running her fingers over the linen. They were a worker’s fingers with short nails and dry skin, the hands of a woman unafraid of labor but sometimes ashamed to place them on the table when she was a guest. She smiled at the customer, but her thoughts were far away.

Today was the 18th, the day she committed her small secret crime against the family budget. When the store closed and the heavy metal shutters came clattering down, separating the bright world of the display windows from the dark street, Carol did not go straight home.

She adjusted her coat—not new, bought on sale 3 years ago but still good quality and gray—and turned toward the park. In her pocket, inside an old leather wallet, was a white envelope. It didn’t contain much, just $100.

For some, that was a dinner at a restaurant. For Carol, it was a new pair of winter boots she hadn’t bought herself this season. But for the person waiting for her on a park bench, it was life.

The Man Under the Sycamore

Walter, her husband’s former driver, the man who had driven for Art for 5 years, sat hunched under an old sycamore tree. One day Art had come home furious, tossed his keys onto the entryway table, and said:

“I fired the old man. He’s gotten unreliable, forgetful, and besides, the car reeked of stale cigarette smoke.”

Carol knew Walter hadn’t smoked in 10 years, and she also knew that Walter’s unreliability consisted only of him having seen too much and kept an all-too-honest silence. But she didn’t argue with her husband then; she rarely did. She simply started setting aside a little money from bonuses, from extra shifts, from skimping on her own lunches.

“Walter,” she called out softly.

The old man started raising his head. In the lamplight, his face looked like translucent paper. He tried to stand, leaning on his cane, but she stopped him with a gesture.

“Why did you come? It’s cold out.”

“Here,” she said quickly, glancing around, and slipped the envelope into his hand.

The old man’s hand was icy and trembled.

“Get yourself that heart medicine you told me about and some fruit. Don’t forget the fruit.”

“Carol, my dear. You don’t have to. If Art finds out, he’ll kill me,” he whispered.

But his fingers clutched the envelope tightly. The old man’s eyes grew moist.

“You’re a saint. He doesn’t deserve you. Oh, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“What are you saying?” Carol pulled away embarrassed, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks.

Gratitude made her uncomfortable. She didn’t consider herself a saint. She just remembered how Walter had picked her up from the hospital when their daughter was born while Art was too busy in a meeting. How he had rocked Ashley’s stroller while Carol ran into the pharmacy.

“Go home, Walter, and take care of yourself.”

She patted his shoulder and walked quickly away toward her house.