When I walked into the furniture store,
I certainly did not expect to uncover a secret my spouse had kept from me for months.
But once I eventually recovered from my profound shock,
I made him suffer in the most excruciating way possible!
I was a senior at work,
which meant I had access to petty cash funds
and the authority to make certain decisions for the company.
So, after discussing it with my manager,
my colleague Jenna graciously offered to drive me
to a budget furniture business located on the outskirts of town.
I believed a quick replacement chair would remedy the situation
and pull me out of my recent slump.
When we arrived at the store,
we strolled past rows of exorbitantly priced recliners,
dining tables, and elaborate display sofas,
giggling at the utterly ludicrous price tags!
Then, a voice drifted from one of the aisles.
Low, smooth, slightly amused.
Familiar in the worst possible way!
“I can’t wait until we finish furnishing this place,” the voice declared.
“Once it’s complete, I can finally leave her.
Our cozy love nest, meant only for the two of us, will finally be ready.”
I froze instantly behind a tall rack of brushed nickel lamps.
My stomach lurched violently!
“She still believes I’m sick,” he continued,
in that same soothing tone I’d heard so many nights
when he claimed the chemotherapy made his throat raw.
“I told her the treatment is too exhausting to work.
That’s why I’ve been home.
She gives me money every month for my ‘recovery.'”
My kneecaps buckled beneath me!
I desperately grasped the shelf for support
and peered through the narrow gap between the display light boxes.
It was Matt.
My Matt!
My husband of six years!
And there, standing right next to him,
clutching a swatch book and laughing like a giddy teenager at prom over paint samples,
was a woman half my age
with long honey-blonde hair and towering platform sandals!
She tossed her head back and leaned against him
as if they were characters straight out of a romantic comedy.
They were passionately discussing “their cozy little family nest.”
I did not even shed a tear.
My body became ice-cold as the devastating truth exploded in my chest!
While I was working extra shifts to cover his supposed therapies,
preparing meals, cleaning our home, and consumed with worry,
he was constructing a new life and refurbishing their house with her!?
All on my hard-earned money!
Matt had claimed he was staying at his mother’s home
because the journey to the hospital was shorter.
He asserted he was too weak to stay at our house
and could “rest” better at his mother’s.
I even personally paid his doctor,
but now I am convinced the “doctor” was merely a prepaid burner phone
that he used to send bogus updates!
And those letters on fancy letterhead?
Completely forged.
I later discovered he had used templates from some online disability forums
and printed them on stationery from an old office job!
But in that moment, I did not scream.
I did not storm up to him or dramatically throw a lamp like they do in the movies.
I did not confront him,
because public humiliation would have been far too easy a punishment.
I just stood there.
Then I turned around and calmly walked away.
Smiling, I informed my colleague that I was not feeling well
and needed to return home immediately.
She offered to pick out a good chair for me
and said she’d inform our manager.
I went home and began meticulously planning my next move.
That night, Matt decided to come home,
a rare occurrence since his supposed “illness” began.
Being the supportive and giving person I was,
I had relented to all his requests,
believing it was best not to argue with him in his fragile condition.
I thought I was doing right by him,
but he clearly thought I was a fool.
I smiled genuinely.
I kissed his cheek and remarked, “You look much better today.”
He nodded, seemingly pleased.
“Yeah. The new medications are really helping.”
He had absolutely no idea I already knew everything.
I feigned laughter when I recounted the amusing story
about my accident with a chair at work.
But I made no mention of having been to a furniture store,
nor did I inquire about his whereabouts that day.
Oh no!
Throwing a tantrum would have been a punishment far too lenient for him!
I initiated my revenge.
That night, while he snored soundly,
I meticulously went through his laptop.
The password? Still our dog’s name, Daisy123.
I effortlessly discovered the floor plans for a two-bedroom house near Pine Ridge
and numerous receipts addressed to a woman named Lexie.
One file was conspicuously labeled “Our Nest Budget,”
which prominently included my bank transfers listed under “health fund.”
Gaining access was far easier than I had anticipated.
Matt always kept a spare key in his glovebox
in case of an emergency.
I knew the code to his car and our garage.
The plan formed in my mind in deliberate waves.
It needed to be precise.
Poetic.
Absolutely devastating.
So, I meticulously created gorgeous housewarming invitations.
The front read:
“Matt and Rachel invite you to a surprise reveal
of their beautiful new house,
which they built as a labor of love
throughout Matt’s rehabilitation.
Come and celebrate our miracle.”
Then, the most intriguing part began.
I sent them to absolutely everyone!
His boss.
His coworkers.
His church acquaintances.
His mother, who had so often lauded him as a “brave boy” for enduring so much.
I even invited the kind church ladies who had brought us lasagna
throughout his chemotherapy.
On the morning of the “party,”
after carefully scouting the location several times,
I drove to the house with a cart laden with supplies.
A cleaning crew had just finished their work.
I tipped the lead guy $200 to allow me in for an “early surprise setup.”
He did not ask any questions.
I knew my husband would be there
because he had stated that he was staying with his mother that week,
implicitly meaning his mistress.
The walls inside were adorned with framed cozy snapshots of Matt and Lexie!
Kissing on the beach!
Painting a hallway together!
A photo strip from a carnival,
Lexie conspicuously wearing Matt’s hoodie!
I did not take anything down.
Instead, I hung a “Welcome Home” banner
prominently across the front window.
I meticulously arranged finger foods and small name cards,
labeling each tray with care:
“Lexie’s Raspberry Bars,”
“Matt’s Mini Quiches,”
and “From Matt and Lexie’s Loving Kitchen.”
By four o’clock in the afternoon,
guests began to trickle in.
First came Matt’s supervisor, a stern man named Harold,
who looked at me as if I were a miracle worker.
“We’re all so proud of him,” he added sincerely.
“To renovate a house while undergoing chemo, what an incredible story!”
Then came our neighbors,
our parents,
and our church friends.
Even Matt’s cousin from Nashville drove in for the occasion.
I stood at the end of the walkway,
greeting each person with a genuine smile.
“So glad you could make it; Matt will be absolutely thrilled!”
By five, the house was completely packed.
People were sipping wine,
nibbling on canapés,
and enthusiastically discussing the beautiful images displayed on the walls.
Everyone was perplexed yet delighted by the news,
because they had assumed Matt was dying.
The front door opened precisely at five fifteen.
Matt strolled in casually, holding a paper grocery bag in one arm,
and Lexie trailed behind him with a bag of lemons and soda water.
Lexie gasped loudly!
Matt dropped the bag, startled.
Oranges rolled across the pristine hardwood floor.
The room fell into an immediate, stunned silence.
I stepped forward, my heels echoing sharply on the tile.
I leaned in close to Matt’s ear and whispered,
“Don’t worry. I didn’t tell them. Your walls did.”
His eyes were wide with absolute shock!
Then I turned to the assembled guests.
“Welcome, everyone. Please, enjoy yourselves!”
The profound quiet broke into a flurry of whispering.
When people finally saw Lexie,
they began to scrutinize the photos even more closely.
Love notes were conspicuously posted on the refrigerator.
A water bill clearly featured Lexie’s name alongside Matt’s.
Harold, Matt’s supervisor, turned to face him squarely.
“So this is where our sick leave money went?!” he thundered.
Matt opened his mouth, but was utterly unable to utter a single word.
His mother dropped into a nearby chair, her face utterly pallid!
Lexie slowly moved away, her heels clicking softly,
before bolting out the rear door!
I remained for twenty minutes,
politely conversing with our thoroughly surprised guests.
I calmly shared what I knew about the house and Lexie.
I then drove myself home.
Matt showed up in my driveway the very next morning.
His bags were packed.
His face was hollow and drawn.
“Rachel,” he begged quietly, his voice broken.
“Please. I am so terribly sorry. She’s gone.
I have no one left.
“I did not intend for any of this to happen—”
I calmly handed him an envelope.
Inside were divorce papers.
And a detailed reimbursement demand for all expenses incurred during his “treatment.”
Including the cost of the catered lasagna!
“You wanted a new home,” I remarked, my voice perfectly steady.
“Now you can live in it, completely alone.”
He dropped to his knees directly on our lawn in despair!
I turned and stepped inside, firmly locking the door behind me.
Two weeks later, I was sitting comfortably in my lawyer’s office,
setting up a brand new bank account.
I named it the “New Beginnings Fund.”
I deposited half of the money he paid back into it.
I spent the remaining half on a luxurious vacation overseas.
In the end, he faked his illness,
while I, in turn, cured mine.
I finally stopped loving a liar.