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?

No Support

That evening, Carol called Ellen, her lifelong friend. She needed to hear at least one supportive voice. Just one.

“Oh, that’s horrible. You poor thing,” Ellen said after Carol told her Art has another family in Oakridge.

There was a pause on the line, a little too long.

“You knew?” Carol asked, feeling the cold seize her heart again.

“Carol, well, there were rumors.” Ellen’s voice sounded guilty but distant. “It’s a small town. Someone saw his car there. But I thought, why would you need to know? You were happy. Seemingly happy.”

“Carol,” Ellen rephrased. “Well, you were living peacefully, Carol. Don’t make any rash decisions. Men are all like that. But he supports you. He doesn’t hit you. Trudy is probably right. Where would you go on your own now?”

Carol hung up. The phone felt as heavy as a brick. She went out onto the balcony. The night city twinkled with lights. Somewhere in the darkness slept people who knew everything. The clerks in the neighboring stores, Art’s colleagues, even her friends. They all looked at her and saw a fool who noticed nothing.

You became a convenient roommate. Her mother-in-law’s words burned like a brand. Carol looked at her hands gripping the balcony railing. Yes, she was to blame. To blame for letting herself become convenient, for turning a blind eye to his coldness, his absences, the disappearing money. She was afraid of conflict, afraid of losing this fragile world, and with her own fear, she had destroyed it.

But now there was no more fear. There was only emptiness and clarity.

She returned to the room. Art was asleep on the living room sofa, covered with a blanket. Even in sleep, he looked pathetic, his legs curled up.

Carol went to the bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled out an old duffel bag. She didn’t know where she would go. She didn’t know what she would live on. But she knew one thing for sure: She would no longer be convenient, and she would not live in a lie for status and Trudy’s peace of mind. She began to pack her things, slowly and carefully. T-shirts, underwear, old jeans. Each item that went into the bag was like a brick in the foundation of a new, unknown, and terrifying life.

In the morning, she would not make breakfast. In the morning, she would take the first step.

The Log Book

In the morning, Carol didn’t leave. The duffel bag remained in the corner of the bedroom, a silent rebuke to her indecision. Ashley woke up with a fever, pale and coughing, and a mother’s instinct overrode her pride. Carol stayed, made chicken broth, gave her medicine, and every time she passed the living room where a dejected Art sat, she felt her insides clench into an icy knot.

Around noon, her phone vibrated with a message. Unknown number.

“The park, same bench in an hour. It’s important.”

Carol knew who it was. She left the house, telling her daughter she was going to the pharmacy. Her feet carried her on their own to the familiar sycamore tree. Walter was already waiting. This time, he wasn’t hiding in the shadows but sat upright, his hands on the knob of his cane. On the bench next to him lay an old, worn-out logbook with a faux leather cover, the kind they gave drivers at the transport company 20 years ago.

“Walter.” Carol walked up and sat beside him without looking at him.

She was ashamed. Ashamed that he had warned her and she hadn’t believed him. Ashamed that he had witnessed her disgrace.

“You saw?” he asked in a low voice.

“I saw.”

“Good.” The old man nodded as if stamping a document. “Then you’re ready to listen now.”

He pushed the logbook toward her.

“What is this?”

“My conscience,” Walter said.

Carol opened the first page. Walter’s handwriting was large, angular, with a firm stroke. Dates, times, mileage, addresses.

March 12. Oakridge, 14 Main Street. Waited 3 hours. Toy Store Fimo Fura. April 5. Central Bank, cash withdrawal. Oakridge, 14 Main Street, package delivery. May 20. Healthy Kids Pediatric Clinic, Oakridge, paid for consultation.

The pages rustled under her fingers like dry leaves. Year after year. 5 years of meticulous records. He wasn’t just taking rides.

“Carol,” Walter began, staring straight ahead. “I saw everything. I was his alibi. ‘Walter, just say we were at the construction site.’ ‘Walter, stop by the florist and buy a bouquet. Say it’s from me while I make a call.’ I kept quiet because I needed the job. My pension is small. My wife is sick. I was selling my conscience for a paycheck.”

Carol was silent, turning the pages.

“And then a year ago,” the old man’s voice trembled, “we were coming back from Oakridge. He was cheerful, ecstatic. His daughter, Lily, had said her first word or something. And I… I had the nerve to say, ‘Mr. Miller, but Ashley has her recital at the music school today. You promised you’d go.’ Walter smiled bitterly. He looked at me like I was trash. ‘You just drive, old man, and don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,’ he told me. ‘Carol is a strong woman. She’ll manage. Victoria needs help. She’s all alone.’ And the next day, he fired me. Said I was unreliable.”

Carol stopped at an entry dated 6 months ago.

Central Bank. Withdrawal from education account: $1,500. Transfer for roof repair in Oakridge.

The education account. Carol’s blood ran cold. It was their untouchable savings, the money they had been putting away since Ashley was born—for college, for tutors, for her future. Every cent in there was watered with her sweat, with her giving up a new coat, a vacation, a normal life.

She flipped through the pages frantically.

Withdrawal from education account: $500. Purchase of furniture for child’s room. Withdrawal from education account: $2,000.

“He emptied the account,” Carol’s voice broke into a whisper.

“Almost completely,” Walter confirmed. “I drove him to the bank each time. He said he was investing, that the money had to work, and oh, it worked. On a roof repair in Oakridge and a private daycare for Lily.”

Carol closed the logbook. Her hands were shaking with a fine, unpleasant tremor. This was worse than infidelity. Infidelity could be explained by passion, a mistake, a weakness. But this… this was theft. He wasn’t stealing from her. He was stealing from his own daughter. From Ashley, who dreamed of studying architecture, who spent nights sketching blueprints, who believed her father was proud of her and would help her. Art hadn’t just betrayed his family. He had methodically and calculatedly, dollar by dollar, destroyed the future of his first daughter to build a comfortable nest for his second.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Carol asked without looking up.

“I was afraid,” Walter answered honestly. “Afraid of him. Afraid you wouldn’t believe me. That you’d say the old man is senile, getting revenge for being fired. You loved him, Carol. You prayed for him.”

He placed his dry, rough hand on hers.

“But now… now I see you have nothing left to lose. Take this logbook. It’s not just paper. It’s evidence. If he starts playing games, if he says there’s no money, show him this. Let him know his secret accounting isn’t so secret.”

Carol clutched the logbook. It burned her fingers.

“Thank you, Walter.”

“Don’t thank me, my dear.” The old man sighed deeply and stood up, leaning on his cane. “I’m an accomplice too. I drove him. I stayed silent. Forgive me if you can.”

He walked away down the path, more stooped than usual, a small figure in an old coat carrying the weight of others’ sins on his shoulders.

Carol remained on the bench. The wind flipped through the logbook, revealing more and more dates.

Purchase of coat: $1,000. Payment for stay at spa resort for mom Trudy: $800.

Carol remembered how Art had told her last winter: “Carol, it’s a crisis. They cut my bonus this year. No gifts. Okay? The important thing is we’re together.”

She had agreed. She had felt sorry for him. She had prepared a festive dinner with what she had, and all the while, he was buying another woman a coat with his daughter’s money.

Something inside Carol burned away completely. The pity, the doubts, the fear—it all vanished, consumed by a white-hot flame of rage, a silent, cold, calculating rage. She stood up. Her movements became precise, sharp. She put the logbook in her purse. She zipped it shut with a dry sound, like a gunshot.

She wasn’t crying anymore. She had no tears left. All that remained was the desire to take back what belonged to her daughter. Carol walked home. She now knew what she would say to Art. And this time, he wouldn’t get away with tears and pathetic excuses. Now she had a weapon in her hands, and she intended to use it.