My wife confessed her darkest secret in Japanese, not knowing I was fluent.

That evening, I searched online directories for therapists who specialized in betrayal trauma. I found D’vorah Gay’s profile on a counseling website.

I filled out the intake form honestly in the parking lot of a grocery store. I typed that I was angry and hurt but not dangerous, just desperate for a space to process this.

D’vorah’s office called me the next morning, and I scheduled my first session for Thursday afternoon.

When the day arrived, I left work early and drove to a small office building. The waiting room was the kind of generic professional space that could be a dentist or accountant.

D’vorah met me at the door, shaking my hand and leading me to her office. I sat down and started talking, the whole story pouring out in a rush.

She listened without interrupting, her face neutral but attentive.

When I finished, she asked me what I hope to achieve through all this evidence gathering.

I told her I wanted to expose Iiki in front of her entire family and make sure everyone knew what she’d done.

D’vorah nodded slowly.

She asked whether that would serve my healing or just my anger.

The question hit me harder than I expected, sitting in my chest like a weight for the rest of the session.

Over the next week, I started quietly removing things from the house during my lunch breaks. I rented a storage unit across town.

I took my parents’ photo albums first. Then I took the letters my dad wrote to my mom when they were dating.

I grabbed a few pieces of furniture that had belonged to my grandparents, small items that fit in my car trunk.

Each trip felt like dismantling the life I thought I was building. I photographed everything as I loaded it into the storage unit, creating a digital inventory.

Ikey noticed the missing wedding photo on Thursday evening. She was dusting the living room shelf when she stopped and looked at the empty space.

She called out, asking where it went, her voice casual but curious.

I walked in from the kitchen and told her I’d taken it to get the frame repaired.

She accepted this explanation immediately, nodding and moving on to dust the next shelf.

Her easy acceptance of my lie mirrored exactly how she’d been lying to me for months.

Maria called me on Friday with news about Matt. She’d scheduled a meeting with him using a vague pretext about a legal matter.

Matt had agreed to meet at a coffee shop downtown on Saturday morning, and Maria invited me to come observe from a distance.

I agreed immediately. Maria laughed and said sunglasses and a baseball cap would be fine.

Saturday morning, I arrived at the coffee shop twenty minutes early and claimed a table three rows back.

Matt showed up right on time, looking nervous as he scanned the room for Maria.

I watched them shake hands and sit down. Even from this distance, I could read his body language clearly.

At first, he looked confused, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.

Then Maria must have mentioned Iikkei’s name, because his whole posture changed. He leaned forward, his hands moving to his hair running through it over and over.

He kept shaking his head, his mouth moving rapidly as he talked. At one point, he put his face in his hands.

After about forty minutes, Maria stood up and shook Matt’s hand again. He left through the front door, walking fast.

I waited five minutes before joining Maria at her table. She briefed me quickly, keeping her voice low.

Matt had admitted everything: the affair, the $5,000 payment, all of it.

He said Ike told him she was going to handle it, and he’d assumed that meant either abortion or passing the baby off as her husband’s.

He seemed genuinely shocked to learn she was planning to keep the baby and that I might be discovering the truth.

Maria had recorded the entire conversation with Matt’s permission. She handed me a business card with a code to access the audio file from her secure server.

That night, I stood in our bathroom after Ike had gone to bed, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I tried to practice what I’d say when I finally confronted her.

I imagined revealing that I spoke Japanese and watching her face change. I pictured playing the recordings.

But every script I rehearsed felt wrong. I couldn’t find the right tone or the right words that would convey everything I felt.

I tried different approaches: calm and clinical, angry and accusatory, hurt and betrayed. None of them felt authentic.

After an hour, I gave up and went to bed, lying awake in the darkness while Aky slept beside me.

The Hospital Room Revelation

Wallace called early the next morning while I was making coffee. He got straight to business, asking about my plans for the work trip and the security system.

Then he said something that made my blood pressure spike.

He told me I needed to be very careful about recording laws in our state because some places require two-party consent.

If we were in a two-party consent state, everything I’d captured could be illegal and I could face criminal charges.

I sat down on my toolbox, suddenly feeling sick.

The thought that all my evidence gathering could backfire hadn’t even occurred to me.

Wallace said he’d look into our specific state laws and get back to me.

I spent the rest of the morning searching online, reading through legal websites and state statutes.

Finally, around noon, I found what I was looking for. Our state was a one-party consent state, meaning I could legally record any conversation I was part of or that happened in my own home.

The relief hit me so hard I had to put my head between my knees. Wallace called back an hour later to confirm my research, but he added a warning.

He explained that even though the recordings were legal, judges sometimes viewed them badly if they looked like harassment.

I assured Wallace I understood and that I’d only use the recordings to capture what naturally happened during my fake work trip.

Two days later, I installed the security system while Ike was at a doctor’s appointment.

I mounted small cameras in the living room, kitchen, and hallway. Each one had audio recording capability hidden in what looked like regular home security equipment.

When I got home, I showed her the new system with what I hoped looked like excited pride.

I pulled up the app on my phone and walked her through how we could monitor the house remotely.

I explained that with the baby coming, I wanted to make sure our home was as secure as possible.

She smiled and hugged me, saying it made her feel safer. She had no idea she’d just approved her own surveillance.

That night during a quiet dinner, she suddenly grabbed her stomach and let out a sharp gasp.

Her face went pale and she doubled over slightly in her chair.

My fork clattered onto my plate as I jumped up, all my anger and planning forgotten in an instant.

I asked her what was wrong, and she said she was having sharp pains worse than anything she’d felt before.

My hands were already grabbing my keys and her purse as I told her we were going to the hospital right now.

I helped her to the car, one arm around her waist. The drive took twelve minutes but felt like an hour.

At the hospital, they got her into a wheelchair and took her straight back to be examined.

A doctor came out after about thirty minutes and explained that it was round ligament pain, not labor.

They wanted to monitor her for another hour just to be safe, but the baby was fine and there was no immediate danger.

The relief and confusion hit me at the same time, leaving me exhausted in the waiting room.

I sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and watched Iikke doze in the seat next to me. Her hand was resting on her belly like she was protecting the baby.