The question clung to the steam on the glass, taunting me. I thought about perfect Melinda with her perfect mornings, and her free time to sculpt herself into something polished. I thought about Dorian sprawled on the couch each evening with a beer and takeout nachos — only ever one portion — criticizing while I managed bedtime, dishes, and bills.
And I thought of the woman I used to be, the one who felt seen, loved, and alive.
Three weeks later, the answer came.
Dorian left his laptop open on the dining room table while he went to shower. A cheerful ping lit up the screen. My heart skipped as I leaned closer. It was a dating app notification.
“What the actual heck, Dorian?” I muttered under my breath.
I clicked on the notification, and my husband’s dating profile filled the screen.
The photos were from our honeymoon, years ago, when his smile was genuine and his waistline was slimmer. The bio claimed that he loved hiking, cooking gourmet meals, and having deep conversations in the dark.
“Hiking?” I said, letting out a bitter laugh. “The man gets winded walking upstairs.”
When he came out of the shower, humming happily, I forced myself to act normal — like I hadn’t just uncovered my husband’s intention to cheat.
“Dorian,” I asked casually. “When was the last time you actually cooked a meal?”
“Why?” he asked, frowning. “What does that matter?”
“No reason,” I said, masking the fire building inside me.
Rage steadied me. I had a phone, I had access to his real life, and I had years of frustration stored like kindling waiting to be used. And in that moment, I knew I was ready to strike the match.
So I started documenting.
At first, it felt almost silly, sneaking photos of my own husband like some undercover journalist. But with each snap of my phone’s camera, I felt stronger. I caught him snoring on the couch, beer balanced on his stomach, crumbs from chips scattered across his shirt like confetti at a pity party.
I caught him picking his nose absentmindedly while glued to sports highlights. My favorite photo, though, was of him drooling on his pillow while Whiskey sat patiently next to him.
Looking at those pictures lined up in my gallery, I realized something. This wasn’t the charming man I had married. This was the man that I had been carrying for years while he criticized me for letting myself go.
Sure, Dorian paid the bills, but I did everything else for us.
When I edited his dating profile, it felt like peeling away a mask. Out went the honeymoon smiles, the curated lies about hiking and deep conversations. In went the sweatpants, the beer belly, and the truth.
The bio was sharper than any insult he had ever thrown my way. Getting into the account was easy — Dorian was a man of one email address and one password for everything.
“Likes beer more than his kids.”
“The couch beats gym every single time.”
“Married for seven years—but the dog is the real man of the house.”
“Will ghost you after three messages when someone easier comes along.”
Within days, the reports piled up, and the profile vanished. For the first time in months, I felt powerful.
In the days after the profile vanished, Dorian was restless. I caught him scowling at his phone more than once, muttering under his breath.
One night, he threw his phone down on the couch and groaned.
“I don’t get it! I can’t even log into that stupid site anymore. Must be a glitch. Figures. The one decent thing I had to distract me from this misery and it just disappears.”
I was making ice cream sandwiches for the kids — Emma was asking about how chocolate sauce was made, and Marcus had stuck his fingers into the tub of vanilla ice cream.
I kept my face carefully neutral so he couldn’t see the spark of satisfaction in my eyes.
“Maybe,” I said evenly. “You should focus less on distractions and more on what’s right in front of you.”
He didn’t catch the double meaning. He just shrugged and reached for the remote.
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