“Sure you do.” I pulled out my phone and opened the video from night three. “You understand perfectly.”
The color drained from his face as he watched himself kiss Betty under her porch light.
When it ended, I showed him the footage from night four. Then five.
“How long?” His voice came out broken.
“How long what? How long have you been lying to me?
How long have you been sneaking around? How long have I known?” I set the phone down. “Pick your question, Dave.
I’ve got time.”
He reached for my hand, but I pulled away.
“Lucy, please. Let me explain.”
“Explain what? That 22 years wasn’t enough?
That our children weren’t enough? That I wasn’t enough?” My voice cracked, but I pushed through. “No thanks.
I’ve heard enough explanations to last a lifetime.”
The lawyer said I had an airtight case — community property state, clear evidence of adultery, and no prenup. The house would be mine, along with half of everything else. Dave could keep his lies and his midnight trash runs.
He moved in with Betty the day after I filed.
I heard through neighborhood gossip that she dumped him six weeks later for the contractor fixing her roof. Apparently, she got bored once the thrill of stealing someone else’s husband wore off.
I changed the locks, planted new flowers in the front yard, and learned to sleep through the night without checking if anyone was lying beside me. Some mornings I woke up lonely, but never once did I wake up wondering if the person next to me was telling the truth.
Because here’s what 22 years taught me: trust isn’t something you rebuild after it’s shattered.
It’s something you protect, value, and never give to someone who treats it like trash to be taken out in the dark of night.
Dave wanted to sneak around in the shadows? Fine. Now he can live there permanently, while I step into the light of a life where I never have to wonder if the person I love is lying to my face.
Sometimes, the best thing you can do is take out the trash yourself…
even when the trash has been sleeping in your bed for over two decades.
