I always thought my life was pretty ordinary: work, home, husband, weekend meetups with friends, nothing special. Sometimes, when I had a free moment, I’d scroll through social media feeds and mentally compare my steady life to the vibrant pictures of other people’s lives. But then I’d remind myself that behind those beautiful photos, there’s often a completely different reality.

My name is Emily, Em for short, I’m 32, and for the last 7 years, I’ve been working at a marketing agency. I can’t say I’m crazy about my job, but it provides a stable income and some freedom in my actions. Plus, I have my husband Michael; we’ve been together for 6 years, married for 5 of them.

We don’t have kids yet, though relatives regularly ask when we’ll finally make them grandparents and aunts/uncles happy. Our apartment is in a suburban neighborhood of Chicago, not the most prestigious, but not on the outskirts either—a two-bedroom with a small kitchen and combined bathroom. We bought it 3 years ago, taking out a 20-year mortgage.

Every month, a significant portion of our income goes to bank payments. But at least the apartment is ours; I’ve always said it’s better to pay a mortgage than rent forever and invest in someone else’s walls. My relationship with my mom is complicated—not that we argue or conflict openly, but there’s always been some invisible wall between us.

Mom is old-school, a bit authoritative, always knowing what’s right. As a child, I often resented her strictness, but as an adult, I understood that all her demands and restrictions came from the best intentions. Mom lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the other side of the city.

She and Dad divorced when I was 14; I wouldn’t say it was a big tragedy. Dad was often away on business trips, and we were never particularly close. After the divorce, he moved to another city, remarried, and had other kids.

We talk on holidays, sometimes meet when he comes for business, but there’s no special warmth between us. Mom didn’t remarry after the divorce; she dedicated herself to work as a math teacher in middle school and raising me, her only daughter. Now she’s 58, retired, but still working; she says without work, she’d start to wither.

And retirement pay is small; extra money doesn’t hurt. I see Mom about once every two weeks; I visit her, sometimes with Michael, sometimes alone. We drink tea, discuss news, complain about life, politics, prices.

Ordinary mother-daughter conversations, no special revelations, no deep talks. Sometimes it seems like we’re playing roles: her as the caring mother, me as the obedient daughter. And we both know the rules of this game but keep playing.

Mom never approved of Michael, not that she was openly against our marriage, but I always felt her unspoken dissatisfaction. By the way, we got married pretty quickly; we dated for just a year. Michael insisted, and honestly, I didn’t see any reason to delay.

I thought I knew him well enough; now, looking back, I realize maybe we should’ve gotten to know each other better before such a serious step. Michael works at a construction company; he’s an engineer with an irregular schedule. There are often trips to sites; sometimes he comes home late, sometimes stays overnight at the site if it’s far from home.

I’ve gotten used to his absences and didn’t attach much importance to them. Our marriage can’t be called ideal, but I wouldn’t call it unhappy either. We have arguments like all couples, but no major conflicts arose.

Or at least that’s what I thought until that call from Mom. That day started as usual: I was getting ready for work, Michael was still sleeping. He came back late, around midnight, from another site.

I quietly got ready, drank coffee, and left the apartment. It was Monday, and a tense work week awaited me. And on Saturday, Michael and I were supposed to fly off on vacation.

Mexico, five-star hotel, all-inclusive. Our first joint vacation in the last two years. Work was chaotic.

End of quarter, closing several projects at once, reports, client meetings. I got home around eight in the evening, tired but satisfied. Tomorrow was the last workday before vacation.

I needed to wrap up all current tasks, hand over projects to colleagues, and then I could relax for two weeks. Michael wasn’t home, which didn’t surprise me. He warned he’d be late.

I took a shower, warmed up dinner, and settled with a plate in front of the TV. And then the phone rang. Mom’s name lit up on the screen.

Usually, Mom doesn’t call me in the evenings on weekdays, knowing I’m busy. And in the first second, worry pricked me. Had something happened?

I picked up. Hi, Mom. Something wrong? Hello, Em.

No, nothing terrible. Just, I need you to do something. Mom’s voice sounded strange, tense, anxious.

What exactly? I want you to set up a camera in your living room, hidden, and leave the apartment for a few hours. I didn’t even understand what she was talking about at first.

A camera? In the living room? Why? I’ll explain later.

Just do it, please. Mom, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?

Em, I can’t explain everything now. Trust me, there are reasons. Do you have such a camera?

I thought about it. Indeed, I had a mini-camera we bought last year when we went away for a week. We wanted to keep an eye on the neighbor’s cat we were watching while they were on vacation.

The camera is small, with remote viewing via an app on the phone. Yes, I have one. But Mom, set it so the whole room is visible, especially the front door.

And go somewhere. To a friend’s, a cafe, doesn’t matter. Just don’t stay home. What about Michael? He’ll be back late.

Exactly. Just do as I ask. I’ll explain everything later. There was something in Mom’s voice that made me agree, despite the absurdity of the situation.

Okay, Mom, I’ll do it, but you have to explain everything to me. Definitely, Em, as soon as I can. Call me when you leave the house.

Mom hung up, and I sat with the phone in my hand, trying to understand what was happening. Why did Mom need me to install a camera in my apartment? What did she want to see, and why couldn’t she just explain?

I got the camera from the drawer where we kept various rarely used gadgets, checked the charge and settings. The camera worked, the app on the phone too. Now I needed to decide where to place it.

In the living room, we had a large ficus in a floor pot. If I placed the camera among the leaves, it wouldn’t be visible, and the view would be excellent. The whole room, the front door, part of the hallway.

I carefully attached the camera to the ficus trunk among the dense green leaves and checked the view through the app. Perfect. But what next? Where to go?

It was already almost nine in the evening, not the best time for visits. I decided to call my best friend Sarah. Sarah, hi. Listen, I have a strange request.

Can I come over to your place for a couple of hours? Hi, Em. Sure. Something happened?

I don’t know. Mom asked me to set up a camera in the apartment and leave. Says she’ll explain later. Wow, interesting.

Come over, of course. I’m home, not going anywhere. Thanks, I’ll be there in half an hour. I packed a bag, checked the camera one more time, and left the apartment.

On the way, I called Mom as she asked. Mom, I did everything. The camera is set, I’m heading to Sarah’s. Good, Em.

Thanks. I’ll call you later. Mom, still, what’s going on? Not over the phone, Em.

I’ll explain later. Stay at Sarah’s, don’t go home until morning. Until morning? Please, Em.

It’s important. Mom hung up again, leaving me in complete bewilderment. Not return until morning—what kind of weirdness? But something in Mom’s voice made me agree.

I sent Michael a message that I’d be staying overnight at Sarah’s, saying we got chatting, drank wine, better to stay there. Michael replied with a short okay, which didn’t surprise me. He was never against my hangouts with friends.

Sarah lived in a neighboring district, and the drive took about 20 minutes. The whole way, I pondered Mom’s strange request—what she wanted to see through the camera, why she couldn’t just explain, and why I had to stay at Sarah’s until morning. Sarah greeted me with a glass of wine and a curious look.

Well, tell me, what’s with these spy games? I recounted the strange conversation with Mom, setting up the camera, and the hasty departure from home. And you don’t know why all this? No idea.

Mom said she’ll explain later, but it sounded very serious. Maybe she suspects something about Michael? I looked at Sarah in surprise. Like what?

Well, you know, maybe she thinks he’s cheating on you or something. I laughed. Michael? He works like crazy; when would he cheat?

And he’s not that kind of person. Sarah shrugged. Just guessing. Otherwise, why set up a camera and ask you to leave?

I thought about it. Really, why? Does Mom really suspect something? But why not tell me straight?

I don’t know, Sarah. All this is very strange. What if we check? You have access to the camera through the app.

I nodded. Yes, but I don’t know if I should. Mom asked just to leave, not to spy. Come on.

It’s your apartment, your camera. You have the right to know what’s happening there. I hesitated. On one hand, Sarah was right.

It’s my apartment, and I have the right to know what’s going on. On the other, Mom clearly didn’t want me to watch the recording right now. Maybe she had reasons for that.

Let’s not yet. I decided. We’ll wait for Mom’s call. Maybe she’ll explain everything.

Sarah sighed disappointedly but didn’t argue. We settled in the living room, drank wine, and chatted about various things. The upcoming vacation, work, mutual acquaintances.

I tried not to think about the strange camera situation, but my thoughts kept returning to it. Around 11 PM, a message came from Michael: I’m home, where are you? I replied as planned: at Sarah’s.

We got chatting, drank wine, staying here, see you tomorrow. Michael sent a smiley and didn’t write more—nothing unusual; he was never particularly chatty in messages. At half-past midnight, Mom called.

Em, are you at Sarah’s? Yes, Mom, as you asked. Good, stay there until morning, don’t watch the camera recording now; we’ll talk tomorrow. Mom, but what’s going on?

Why can’t you just explain? Not over the phone, Em, and not now. Just trust me; it’s important. Stay at Sarah’s, don’t go home until morning, and don’t watch the recording.

Okay, Mom, but tomorrow you’ll explain everything. Yes, Em, I promise. Good night. Mom hung up, and I turned to Sarah, who was watching the conversation curiously.

She said not to watch the recording and stay with you until morning. Now I’m even more curious about what’s happening there. Sarah moved closer. Maybe we should look anyway?

I hesitated again. Mom clearly said not to watch the recording now. But why? What’s there that I shouldn’t see?

Or should, but not now? And why can’t she just explain? No, Sarah, if Mom asks not to watch, there must be reasons. We’ll wait until tomorrow.

Sarah sighed disappointedly again but didn’t argue. We watched some movie, chatted a bit more. And around two in the morning, we went to bed.

Sarah gave me her bed and settled on the couch in the living room. I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, pondering the strange situation. What’s happening in my apartment right now?

What could Mom know that I don’t? And why couldn’t she just tell me? In the morning, I woke up early, around six.

Sarah was still sleeping. I quietly got up, took my phone, and went to the kitchen. Kettle, coffee, sandwich—a usual morning ritual.

And all the time, thoughts swirled around yesterday’s strange conversation with Mom. I took out my phone and opened the camera app. Mom asked not to watch the recording yesterday, but now it’s morning, right?

Technically, I’m not breaking her request. Besides, I won’t wait for explanations until I talk to her in person, and for that, I need to go home. The app loaded, showing the current picture from the camera.

The living room was empty; morning light filtered through the not fully drawn curtains. Everything looked usual. I switched to the recordings from yesterday evening.

Here’s me setting up the camera, checking the angle. Here’s me leaving the apartment. Then several hours of empty living room.

I fast-forwarded to Michael’s return. Here he enters the apartment, turns on the light, takes off his jacket. All as usual. He goes into the living room, sits on the couch, turns on the TV.

Checks his phone. Apparently reading my message about staying at Sarah’s. Nods, puts the phone away. Watches TV for about twenty minutes, then goes to the kitchen.

Returns with a can of beer, sits on the couch again. Nothing unusual. I was starting to think it was all some misunderstanding, that Mom was mistaken or mixed something up. But then.

The doorbell. Michael gets up, goes to open it. And a woman enters the apartment. Young, slim, with long blonde hair.

She smiles, hugs Michael, kisses him on the lips. Not a fleeting friendly kiss, but a long, passionate one. She walks into the apartment like it’s her own, takes off her coat, hangs it on the hook in the hallway.

Under the coat, a short tight dress. She goes into the living room, sits on the couch. Michael brings her a glass of wine. They talk, laugh.

Then she stands up, approaches him, kisses again. They embrace, and… I turned off the recording. My hands were shaking, my heart pounding like crazy.

I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. Michael, my husband, brought another woman into our apartment. And judging by their behavior, this wasn’t their first meeting.

Now I understood why Mom didn’t want me to watch the recording yesterday evening, why she asked me to stay at Sarah’s until morning. She knew; somehow she knew that Michael was cheating on me. And she wanted me to have proof.

But how could she know, and why didn’t she tell me straight? And what do I do with this knowledge now? I sat in Sarah’s kitchen, clutching the phone, not knowing whether to cry or scream in rage.

Six years of marriage, joint plans, dreams, hopes. And all this time, he might have been meeting other women, bringing them into our apartment when I wasn’t home. «Em, you’re up already?» Sarah entered the kitchen, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

«Something happened; you have such a face.» I silently handed her the phone with the open camera app. Sarah took it, watched the recording, then looked at me. «What a jerk,» she said simply.

«Sorry, Em, but I don’t have another word.» I nodded. At that moment, I fully agreed with her assessment.

«What are you going to do?» Good question. What am I going to do? Confrontation? Divorce?

Maybe pretend I don’t know anything and find out how long this has been going on. I don’t know, Sarah. I need to talk to Mom, understand how she knew.

And then, then decide what to do next. I called Mom. «Mom, I saw the recording; I need to talk to you.» «I knew you’d watch it despite my request.»

There was no reproach in Mom’s voice, only fatigue. «Come to me; we’ll talk.» I’ll be there in an hour. I quickly got ready, thanked Sarah for the overnight stay and support, and left her apartment.

On the way to Mom’s, my thoughts raced madly. Who is this woman? How long have they been together? Why did Mom know?

And what do I do now? Mom met me at the door of her apartment. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept all night.

«Come in, Em, want some tea?» I nodded, going into the small kitchen. Mom’s apartment always seemed cozy to me, despite its modest size. Bookshelves along the walls, old but solid furniture, framed photos.

Me as a child, Mom and Dad in their youth, Grandma and Grandpa. Mom put on the kettle, got cups, cookies. The usual ritual we repeated every time I visited.

But today, everything was different. «How did you know, Mom?» Mom sighed, sat across from me.

I saw them together. By chance, three weeks ago. «What? Where?»

In a cafe, not far from my school. I stayed after classes, checking tests. It was already late, around eight in the evening.

I decided to grab dinner at the cafe near the school. And I saw them. They were sitting at a table by the window, holding hands, kissing.

I recognized Michael right away, even though I only saw his profile. I felt a lump in my throat. Three weeks ago…

And all this time, Mom knew and was silent. Why didn’t you tell me right away? I wasn’t sure.

What if it was a business meeting, or just friends. I didn’t want to cause discord in your family without solid certainty. And that’s why you decided to set up this camera story.

I followed them. After that evening. Saw them together several times in different places.

In the same cafe, in the park, once in a shopping mall. They were always very close, holding hands, hugging, kissing. That’s definitely not just friendship.

And I noticed a pattern. They usually met on days when you stayed late at work. And yesterday, I accidentally overheard her phone conversation.

She was standing next to me at the bus stop, talking to someone. I didn’t immediately realize it was her, the same girl I saw with Michael. Then I heard, yes, today, she’s staying at a friend’s, we’ll be alone.

And I realized she was talking about you, about your apartment. I sat stunned by this information. Mom had been following Michael and his mistress for several weeks and didn’t tell me anything.

But why, Mom, why not just tell me? I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me, that you’d think I just don’t like Michael and am trying to drive you apart. This way, you have proof you saw with your own eyes. There was logic in her words.

Indeed, if Mom had just told me she saw Michael with another woman, I might not have believed it. Or believed but tried to find some explanation, justification. And now I had irrefutable proof.

And what do I do now? Mom took my hand. That’s up to you, Em; I can only advise. But the decision must be yours.

What would you do in my place? Mom thought. When your father cheated on me—and he did; that’s why we divorced—I didn’t make scenes or confrontations.

I just packed my things, took you, and left. Later, when emotions settled, we talked calmly, formalized the divorce. But at first, I just needed to leave to avoid doing something stupid.

I didn’t know Dad cheated on Mom; I always thought they divorced due to incompatible characters or something like that. This revelation was another blow. I didn’t know.

You were a child; I didn’t want to involve you in adult problems. But now I think it’s useful for you to know. I pondered Mom’s words: leave without scenes—maybe that’s really the best option.

But where to go? And what about the apartment, the mortgage? Mom, I can’t just leave; the apartment is mortgaged, half the payments are on me.

You can stay with me until you decide what to do next. With the apartment, we can sell it, split the money, close the mortgage. Or keep it for yourself, pay Michael his share; there are different options.

But first, you need to decide if you want to save this marriage. Good question: do I want to save a marriage with a man who cheats on me? Who brings his mistress into our apartment, who deceives me, perhaps not for the first year?

I don’t know, Mom; I need to think. Of course, Em, think as much as you need. But remember, your vacation is on Saturday; you must decide before leaving or cancel the trip.

Damn, the vacation; I completely forgot— in 4 days, we’re supposed to fly to Mexico. Everything’s paid, tickets bought, hotel booked—what to do with that? I don’t want to go with him, Mom, not now.

Then maybe cancel the trip, or you can go alone or with a friend. I thought: go alone or with Sarah—that was an interesting idea. After all, I deserved this vacation; I worked like crazy all year.

Why should I give up the trip because Michael is a jerk, as Sarah aptly put it. You know, that’s an idea; maybe I’ll go with Sarah—I need to find out if she can take vacation. That’s right, and deal with Michael after the vacation.

With a clear head. I nodded; a plan was forming. Today I’ll go home, pack things, move to Mom’s. Call Sarah, find out about vacation; if she can go with me, great; if not, maybe I’ll go alone.

And after the vacation, deal with Michael, the apartment, the future life. Thanks, Mom, for telling me, for helping me learn the truth. Mom hugged me.

I just want you to be happy, Em. And with a man who cheats on you, there won’t be happiness; believe my experience. I hugged Mom back, feeling tears streaming down my cheeks.

It hurts, it’s обидно, bitter, but at the same time, some relief. Now I know the truth; now I can make decisions based on facts, not illusions. After talking with Mom, I went home.

Michael should be at work, and I hoped to pack things and leave before he returned. Not that I was afraid of confrontation; I just wasn’t ready for it, not now. The apartment greeted me with familiar silence; I went to the bedroom, got a suitcase.

And started packing things: the essentials—clothes, cosmetics, documents, laptop, charger. The rest can be picked up later. While packing, thoughts kept circling around yesterday’s recording.

Who is this woman; how long have they been together? Does she know Michael is married—though of course she does; she was in our apartment, saw photos, things. Unless Michael lied to her that we broke up or something like that.

I went to the bathroom to collect toiletries and froze. On the shelf by the sink was a pink toothbrush, not mine and not Michael’s. Mine is red, Michael’s blue; we’ve always used those colors since the beginning of living together.

This woman didn’t just come to our apartment; she had her things here, her toothbrush. What else? I started inspecting the bathroom more closely: a pink loofah on the hook, definitely not mine.

Some jars of creams and lotions I’d never seen before. Feminine pads in the drawer under the sink, not the brand I use. This woman felt at home here, left her things, knew she could return.

This wasn’t a casual fling, not a one-time cheat. These were relationships—long-term, serious relationships. I felt everything inside contracting from pain and humiliation.

All these years, I believed everything was fine with Michael and me, that we loved each other, building a joint future. And he was bringing another woman into our apartment, perhaps not one, and not once. Unable to bear it, I sat on the edge of the bath and sobbed.

Tears streamed down my cheeks; I didn’t try to hold them back. Let it be; I needed to cry it out, release this pain, this humiliation, this offense. I don’t know how long I sat like that—maybe minutes, maybe an hour.

But at some point, the tears dried up, and despair was replaced by cold rage. No, I won’t make a scene, won’t scream and break dishes. But I won’t let him get off easy either.

I took out my phone and called Sarah. Sarah, hi. Listen, do you have a chance to take vacation in the coming days, go to Mexico with me? Mexico?

What about Michael? Michael isn’t going anywhere, at least not with me. Wow, did you talk to him already? Not yet, but I don’t want to go with him and don’t want to give up the vacation.

So? Damn, Em, I’d love to, but our project is burning; they won’t let me go. Okay, then I’ll go alone.

Are you sure; maybe better to cancel the trip? No, Sarah, I deserved this vacation and won’t let Michael ruin it for me. Are you home right now; what if he comes back?

Packing things, moving to Mom’s for now; I’ll talk to Michael later, after the vacation. Maybe I’ll come over, help you pack. No need, Sarah; I’ll manage. You better find out if we can rebook the package from Michael to someone else.

Or at least change the name on the ticket. Okay, I’ll call the agency now, find out. I ended the call with Sarah and returned to packing. Now I acted more methodically, calmly, packing everything that might be needed for the vacation.

And everything that has value for me. The rest can wait. Almost finishing packing, I came across our joint photo in a frame. Me and Michael at the sea, a year ago, happy, smiling.

I looked at that photo for a long time, then resolutely put it in the dresser drawer. No more illusions. Having packed all the necessary, I inspected the apartment for the last time.

Here I was happy or thought I was happy. This is no longer my home, at least not in the sense it was before. I took the suitcase, bag with laptop and documents, and left the apartment.

Already at the door, I stopped, returned, took the camera out of the ficus pot. The last thing I need is for Michael to discover it and realize I know everything. Let him think I suspect nothing.

For now. Leaving the apartment, I called Mom. Mom, I’m coming to you; can I stay with you a few days until departure? Of course, Em; I’ll prepare the couch in the living room for you.

Thanks, Mom. On the way to Mom’s, Sarah called. Em, I found out about the package. We can change the name on the ticket, but it’ll cost money.

About five hundred dollars per ticket. No problem. Find out who can go with me. Maybe Olivia or Sophia.

If no one can, I’ll go alone. I’ll call the girls now, find out. How are you? Fine.

Packed things, heading to Mom’s. Haven’t talked to Michael yet. Did he call? No.

Probably thinks I’m at work. And you’re not going to work today? Damn, completely forgot about work.

No, not going. I’ll take sick leave or time off. Tomorrow is my last day before vacation; nothing terrible. Good…

I’ll call you as soon as I find out about the girls. I arrived at Mom’s around noon. She met me with lunch and news. Your boss, Karen Smith, called.

Looking for you. I said you’re not feeling well and won’t come today. Thanks, Mom. But how did she have your number?

I don’t know. Mom shrugged. Maybe from your personnel file?

I nodded. Quite possible. In the personnel file at work, all contacts are listed, including close relatives’ phones, for emergencies.

I’ll call her after lunch, explain. We sat down to lunch. Mom’s soup, patties, juice.

All like in childhood. Strangely, this simple home food brought unexpected comfort. As if I returned to childhood, when all problems solved themselves once told to Mom.

After lunch, I called work, explained the situation. Or rather, the part concerning work. Said I feel bad, taking time off today and sick leave tomorrow, then vacation.

Karen Smith was understanding, said it’s fine. That I’ve worked well lately and deserved rest. Then Sarah called. Em, good news.

Olivia can go with you; she has vacation in a week. But she’s ready to take it earlier. Great, let her get a passport if she doesn’t have one.

She has; she went to Egypt last year. I’ll give her your number; she’ll contact you about details. Thanks, Sarah; you’re a true friend. Come on, you’d do the same for me.

Olivia called half an hour later; we agreed to meet tomorrow to discuss trip details and rebook the ticket. Then I called the travel agency, learned the passenger change procedure, cost, and necessary documents. Everything was gradually falling into place.

I had a plan. I’ll spend two weeks in Mexico with Olivia, rest, unwind, think about the future. Then return and decide what to do with Michael, the apartment, our marriage. In the evening, Michael called.

Hi, where are you? I’m home, you’re not. I took a deep breath, trying to sound normal. Hi, I’m at Mom’s; feel bad, stayed with her.

What’s wrong, cold? Yeah, something like that—sore throat, temperature; don’t want to infect you before vacation. Okay, get well; tomorrow I’ll be late at work, problems at the site. Of course, problems at the site.

Wonder if these problems have blonde hair and a short dress? Okay, see you later? Sure, get well.

I hung up, feeling a strange emptiness inside. No emotions—no anger, no offense, no pain, just nothing. As if I was talking to a stranger, not my husband of 5 years.

Michael called? Mom asked, entering the room. I nodded. Asked where I am. I said at your place, that I’m sick.

And what did he say? Nothing. Said tomorrow he’ll be late at work, problems at the site. Mom snorted.

Of course, problems. You know, Mom, I don’t care, really. I thought it would hurt more, but it’s like I’m watching from the side. As if it’s not happening to me.

That’s a protective reaction, Em. The body is protecting you from pain. But it will come later. And you’ll have to live through it.

I knew Mom was right. This strange emptiness, this numbness. It’s not forever.

Sooner or later, I’ll feel all the pain, all the humiliation, all the betrayal. But maybe by then I’ll be ready for it. Maybe the vacation, change of scenery, new impressions will help me cope better.

In the evening, Mom and I sat in the kitchen, drank tea, and talked. About work, plans for the future, the vacation, carefully avoiding the topic of Michael and his cheating. As if we silently agreed to discuss that topic later, when emotions settle.

You know, Em, maybe it’s for the best that everything came out now, not later. In what sense? Well, you and Michael were planning kids, right?

Imagine if you already had children; it would be much harder. I nodded. Indeed, Michael and I discussed kids, planned that in a year, when the mortgage is smaller, we could think about a child.

What luck we didn’t manage those plans. Yes, you’re right, Mom; it’s really for the best. At least now I’m free, can leave without looking back.

Exactly, life is giving you a chance to start over, without a traitor, without lies, without humiliation. I thought: start over—maybe it’s really worth viewing what’s happening not as an end, but as a beginning. A new chapter in life, new opportunities, new horizons.

You know, Mom, I’m 32; honestly, I’m a bit afraid to start over. New relationships, new home, maybe new job. 32 is no age, Em; you have your whole life ahead.

And no one says you need to change everything at once. Maybe start small: new relationships, new housing. And you can keep the job if it suits you.

I nodded; Mom is right, no need to panic. No need to try to solve all problems at once—gradually, step by step. I’ll build a new life without Michael.

In the evening, already lying on the couch in Mom’s, I checked my phone. Several messages from Sarah with wishes to hold on and offers of help. A message from Olivia confirming she’ll meet me at the travel agency tomorrow to rebook the ticket.

And a message from Michael: Hope you’re better; if you need anything, call; love you. Love you. Those words that used to bring warmth and joy now seemed empty, fake.

How can he talk about love if he’s cheating on me, bringing another woman into our apartment? Allowing her to leave her things in our bathroom? I didn’t reply to the message.

No point in keeping up this game, this pretense. Soon, very soon, Michael will know I know everything. But not now. First, the vacation.

In the morning, I met Olivia at the travel agency. We rebooked the ticket, paid the necessary fees, discussed trip details. Olivia was thrilled at the unexpected chance to go to Mexico, especially to a five-star all-inclusive hotel.

She didn’t ask about the reasons Michael isn’t going with me, and I was grateful for that. After the agency, we went to a cafe, ordered coffee and desserts. Listen, Em, I don’t want to pry, but is everything okay?

You’re kind of, not yourself. I sighed; apparently my state was noticeable even to acquaintances. Olivia was Sarah’s friend; we’d crossed paths at various events but weren’t close.

Not quite okay, Olivia, but I don’t want to talk about it now. When we’re in Mexico, I’ll tell, maybe. Of course, Em, sorry for asking; just if you need help, I’m always here.

Thanks, really, that’s valuable. Returning to Mom’s, I found several missed calls from Michael and messages. Can’t reach you. Everything okay?

I decided to reply to avoid suspicion. Yes, all fine. Was at the doctor, then pharmacy. Didn’t hear the phone.

The reply came almost instantly: how are you feeling? Can you fly tomorrow? I think yes. No temperature, just throat hurts a bit.

Good. I’ll be late again today. Don’t wait. Of course, don’t wait.

I’m not even in our apartment, but at Mom’s. And I know who you’re late with. But I wrote only: okay. See you tomorrow.

The whole day I spent preparing for the vacation. Checked things, documents, bought some small items that might be needed on the trip. Sunscreen, glasses, hat.

From time to time, thoughts returned to Michael, his cheating, that woman. But I tried not to fixate on it. I’ll have enough time to think about everything during the vacation.

Now I just needed to get through these days until departure. In the evening, Michael called again. Hi, how are you? Fine.

Throat almost doesn’t hurt, no temperature. Can definitely fly tomorrow. Great. Listen, tomorrow I’ll go to the airport straight from work.

Meet there, okay? I have an important meeting, can’t cancel. Of course, important meeting. Wonder if he’s planning to spend the night with her before our vacation?

Or just meet, say goodbye for two weeks? Okay. What time will you be at the airport? I’ll make it to check-in for sure.

About an hour and a half before departure. Okay, see you there. I hung up, feeling anger building inside. He didn’t even bother to come up with a plausible lie.

Important meeting before vacation. Who would believe that? Michael called? Mom asked, entering the room.

I nodded. Says tomorrow he’ll go to the airport straight from work. Important meeting, apparently? Mom shook her head.

Shameless. Doesn’t even try to think of something more believable. You know, Mom, it doesn’t surprise me anymore. Apparently, he’s so used to lying that he does it automatically, without thinking.

Possibly. Well, are you ready for tomorrow, for meeting him at the airport? I thought: was I ready, could I look him in the eyes knowing about his cheating? And not give myself away, not make a scene, not say everything I think about him.

I don’t know, Mom, but there’s not much choice. I’m not going to give up the vacation because of him. So I’ll have to meet at the airport. Not necessarily.

You can arrive right at check-in or even after. Say you were late. I considered this idea. Indeed, I can minimize time spent with Michael at the airport.

Arrive at the last moment, check in, go straight to boarding. And on the plane? Well, on the plane, I’ll have to sit next to him. But that’s only 4 hours.

I’ll manage. Yes, maybe that’s what I’ll do. Arrive just in time to intersect less with him.

Right. And then what are you going to do in Mexico—tell him you know everything? Or wait until return.

I sighed. He’s not flying to Mexico, Mom. At least not with me. I rebooked the ticket to Olivia, Sarah’s friend.

We’ll fly together. Mom raised her eyebrows in surprise. And Michael doesn’t know about it? No.

He’ll find out tomorrow at the airport. Oh, Em, he’ll be furious. Let him; what right does he have to be angry after what he did.

None, of course. But aren’t you afraid of a scene? At the airport, in public? I shrugged.

If he makes a scene, it’ll only confirm I did right not going with him. But overall, I don’t think he’ll make a scene. More likely pretend everything’s normal.

Then, when we’re alone, try to find out what’s going on. Possibly. In any case, be ready for different reactions.

And remember, you owe him nothing. No explanations, no apologies, nothing. I nodded. Mom is right.

I don’t have to justify myself, explain my decisions. Not after what he did. In the morning, I woke up early, around six.

The plane departs at two PM; need to be at the airport two hours before. So leave around eleven. I had enough time to get ready, have breakfast, check documents and things.

Mom also got up early, prepared breakfast. We sat in the kitchen, drank coffee, talked about small things. Carefully avoiding the topic of the upcoming meeting with Michael.

I was grateful to Mom for that. I didn’t want to think about the upcoming confrontation. I wanted to just enjoy this morning, this breakfast, this conversation.

Around ten, Olivia called. Hi, Em. I’m heading to the airport already. See you there.

Hi, Olivia. Yes, I’m leaving soon too. Meet at the check-in counter around one PM. Great.

Looking forward. This will be the best vacation. I smiled. Olivia’s enthusiasm was contagious.

Maybe this vacation will really be good. Maybe it’ll help me get through Michael’s betrayal and decide what to do next. At eleven, the taxi I ordered in advance arrived.

I hugged Mom goodbye. Thanks for everything, Mom. For support, understanding, help. No need, Em.

Rest well, unwind, think about the future. When you return, we’ll decide what to do next. I nodded, feeling tears welling up.

Strangely, at this moment, I was grateful to Mom not only for the current support. But also for all the strictness, all the restrictions she set in my childhood. Now I understood.

All that was out of love, desire to protect, save from mistakes. I love you, Mom. And I love you, Em. And I’ll always love you, no matter what.

I got in the taxi and went to the airport, feeling a strange mix of emotions. Anxiety before meeting Michael, anticipation of vacation, sadness from parting with Mom. Anger at Michael and his cheating, fear of the unknown future.

All these feelings mixed, flowed into each other, creating emotional chaos inside me. I decided to arrive at the airport an hour before departure, right at the end of check-in. That way, I minimize time spent with Michael…

Of course, I’ll have to explain, tell about Olivia, that he’s not flying with me. But it’ll be a short conversation, in public, without possibility of a big scene. On the way to the airport, I got a message from Michael.

I’m already at the airport, waiting for you at check-in. I didn’t reply; no point. Soon, very soon, we’ll see each other, and then there’ll be a talk.

When the taxi arrived at the airport, I took a deep breath, gathering thoughts and emotions. I can do this, can meet him. Say what I must say, and fly away.

Without tears, without hysterics, without humiliation. I entered the airport building, found the needed check-in counter. Michael stood there with our suitcases, nervously glancing at his watch.

Next to him was Olivia; they were talking about something. Obviously, she already explained the situation. Approaching closer, I heard their conversation.

«You must understand, Michael, it’s not my idea.» Olivia suggested, I agreed. «If you’re against, I can just not fly.»

«It’s not about that.» Michael’s voice sounded tense. I just don’t understand why Em decided to do this. Why didn’t she tell me earlier; what the hell is going on?

I approached them, and Michael turned to me. His face showed bewilderment, confusion, and… fear? Yes, definitely fear.

Fear of a person about to be exposed. «Hi,» I said, trying to sound calm. «I see you’ve met already. Em, what’s going on?» Michael took a step toward me.

«Why didn’t you say you’re not flying with me? What does all this mean?» I looked him straight in the eyes. «I’m flying, Michael, but not with you.

With Olivia. Your ticket is rebooked to her.» «But why? What happened?»

«We planned this vacation together.» I took a deep breath. Here it is, the moment of truth. Tell him right now that I know everything, make a scene at the airport.

Or pretend it’s something else, give him a chance to continue playing the faithful husband. We need to talk, Michael. But not here and not now. I’m flying on vacation.

For two weeks. And when I return, we’ll talk. About everything. Michael looked at me with bewilderment and anxiety.

«Em, I don’t understand. What happened? Why are you doing this?» «If I did something wrong, tell me straight.»

I almost laughed. «If he did something wrong? Seriously? Cheating on his wife, bringing a mistress home, allowing her to leave things in their bathroom—that’s something wrong?»

«Not now, Michael. I’m late for check-in. We’ll talk when I return. But what about the vacation? We planned it together.

I took time off, freed up time.» «I’m sure you’ll find something to do in my absence,» I said, unable to resist the jab. «You always have so many important meetings.»

Michael paled. Seems he was starting to understand what I meant. «Em, if it’s about those evenings when I was late at work, I swear, it really was work—projects, reports, client meetings.»

I shook my head. Not now, Michael. I need to go. Olivia, ready?

Olivia, who stood nearby the whole time, silently watching our conversation, nodded. «Yes, Em, let’s go. Check-in ends in 15 minutes.»

I took my suitcase, nodded to Michael, and headed to the check-in counter. Olivia followed me, throwing an apologetic glance at Michael. «Em!» Michael shouted after me.

«We need to talk. I don’t understand what’s happening.» I didn’t turn around. No point in continuing this conversation.

Everything that needed to be said would be said after the vacation. And now I just wanted to fly away, leave all this behind, at least for two weeks. Check-in went quickly; we checked baggage and got boarding passes.

Then passed passport control and ended up in the departure area. Only there, safe, away from the possibility of another meeting with Michael. I felt the tension release.

«Are you okay?» Olivia asked when we settled in a cafe, waiting for boarding. I smiled weakly. «Not quite, but I will be.

When we return, I’ll solve all problems. And now I just want to rest, forget everything, at least for a while. Of course, Em, I understand.

And… I’m sorry it turned out this way, with your husband, with the vacation.» Don’t apologize, Olivia; you’re not involved. And maybe it’s even better this way; we’ll have fun, rest, unwind. Without men, without problems, without drama.

Olivia smiled. «Yes, sounds great.» Girls’ vacation. Just sea, sun, cocktails, and no worries.

I smiled back, feeling something like anticipation starting inside. Maybe this vacation will really be good. Maybe it’ll help me understand what I want from life next.

Without Michael. Boarding, flight, arrival at Cancun airport, transfer to the hotel. Everything passed like in a fog. I was here physically, answered questions, smiled, did everything necessary, but my thoughts were far away.

About Michael, his cheating, our future—or rather, the lack of it. The hotel lived up to all expectations. Five stars, all-inclusive, huge territory with several pools, private beach, restaurants, bars, animation.

Paradise for vacationers. In another situation, I’d be thrilled. Now I just noted these facts without much emotion.

We were placed in a double room with sea view. Large room with two beds, bathroom with jacuzzi, balcony with loungers. Everything beautiful, convenient, thought out to the details.

The first evening, Olivia and I spent exploring the hotel territory, getting familiar with the infrastructure. Dinner in the main restaurant, buffet with huge choice of dishes, cocktails at the pool bar, short walk on the beach.

I tried to engage in the vacation, push thoughts of home problems aside, enjoy the moment. It wasn’t working very well, but I didn’t give up. Before bed, I checked my phone.

Several missed calls from Michael, a dozen messages. «Em, we need to talk; why did you do this? What happened? If I did something wrong, say so.»

And the last one, sent about an hour ago. «I love you, Em. Whatever happened, whatever you think, I love you.» I turned off the phone.

I had no strength to read these messages, reply to them, think about Michael and his love. I deserved these two weeks of rest. Without problems, without drama, without betrayal.

And I intended to get them at any cost. The next two days passed in typical vacation activities. Beach, pool, restaurants, bars, evening shows organized by the hotel.

I tried to fully immerse in rest, forget about home, problems, Michael. Sometimes it succeeded, sometimes not. Olivia turned out to be the perfect companion for such a vacation.

Fun, energetic, but not pushy. She didn’t pry with questions, didn’t try to cheer me up forcefully. Just was there, supported when needed, and left me alone when I wanted to be by myself.

On the third day of vacation, in the evening, we sat in the beach bar, sipping cocktails and watching the sunset. The sea was calm, the sky in incredible shades of pink, orange, and purple. Perfect evening for romance.

Or for revelations. «You know, Olivia,» I said, taking a sip of cocktail. «I probably should explain about Michael, why I didn’t fly with him.»

Olivia shook her head. «You don’t have to, Em. If you don’t want to talk, don’t.» No, I want to; I need to vent.

And you’re the only neutral person I can talk about this with. Mom is too on my side, Sarah is too emotional. And you’ll just listen, without judgments, without advice.

Olivia nodded. «Of course, Em, I’m listening.» And I told her everything. About Mom’s strange call, the camera in the flower pot.

About the recording I saw, the mistress’s things in our bathroom. About my decision to leave. Without scenes, about moving to Mom’s.

About plans for the future or lack thereof. Olivia listened attentively, without interrupting, only sometimes nodding to show she was following. When I finished, she was silent for a long time, looking at the sea.

«You’re strong, Em,» she finally said. «In your place, many would make a scene, hysteria, start revenge. And you just left, preserving dignity.»

I shrugged: I don’t know if strong. Just saw no point in scenes. What would they change?

He already betrayed me, humiliated, lied. No screams, no tears would fix that. «And what are you going to do next, after vacation?»

I don’t know. Probably file for divorce. We’ll have to sell the apartment, close the mortgage, split the remainder.

Or maybe I can buy out Michael’s share, keep the apartment. Need to consult a lawyer. And if he asks for forgiveness, says it was a mistake, that it won’t happen again.

I thought: what if Michael really repents, says he loves me. That the woman means nothing to him, that he wants to save the family. Can I forgive, can I live with him further, knowing about the cheating, trust him?

I don’t know, Olivia, really don’t know. Now it seems no, I can’t. But who knows what will be in two weeks, how my feelings, thoughts will change.

In any case, you have time to think. Two weeks away from home, from problems, from Michael. Use this time wisely. And remember, whatever you decide, it should be your decision.

Not Mom’s, not friends’, not society’s. Yours. I nodded. Olivia is right.

This is my decision, my life. And I must decide what’s best for me, not for Michael, not for Mom, not for anyone else—for me. Thanks, Olivia, for understanding, for support.

And sorry for dumping my problems on you. You came to rest, and here I am with my dramas. Olivia smiled. Don’t apologize…

That’s what friends are for—to be there in tough times. We weren’t even close friends. But now we will be. Nothing bonds like a joint vacation and someone else’s family dramas.

I laughed. For the first time in recent days, sincerely, from the heart. Olivia was right. This vacation, these revelations—they were bringing us closer, turning us from mere acquaintances into real friends.

The following days passed easier. I still thought about Michael, his cheating, our future. But no longer so painfully, so sharply. As if the distance, change of scenery really helped heal wounds, soothe the pain.

I turned on the phone, checked messages. Michael continued writing and calling, but less often. In the last message, he wrote: «I understand you don’t want to talk now. I’ll wait.

When you’re ready, we’ll talk. I love you.» Loves—how can you love and cheat at the same time. How can you talk about love and bring another woman into the home where you live with your wife.

No, that’s not love; that’s something else—habit, convenience, fear of loneliness, but not love. I didn’t reply to the message; I wasn’t ready for a conversation. Didn’t know what to say, how to react; decided to postpone all this until return.

Now I just wanted to rest, regain strength, think about the future. Time on vacation flew unnoticed; days replaced each other. Filled with sun, sea, new impressions.

Olivia and I tanned on the beach, swam in the sea and pool. Went on excursions, danced at discos, met other vacationers. There were several attempts to meet us from men—both locals and tourists.

But I wasn’t ready for new relationships, even fleeting. The wound was too fresh, the pain too sharp. I politely refused everyone, preferring to spend time with Olivia or alone.

One evening, about the 10th day of vacation, we sat in the hotel lobby bar, sipping wine. And talking about various things. Olivia told about her work; she was a designer at an advertising agency.

About her plans for the future, about the dream to open her own studio. And you, Em, what do you want from life, besides solving current problems with Michael, with the apartment? I thought.

I hadn’t asked myself this question for a long time. There were always some current tasks, problems needing solution. Work, daily life, relationships.

And dreams, desires, aspirations—they receded to the background, lost in the routine of everyday life. You know, I’ve always wanted to travel, see different countries, different cultures. Not just as a tourist like this in a five-star hotel.

But for real—live in local apartments, communicate with locals. Study the language, culture, cuisine. And what’s stopping you?

Money, time, work, obligations, mortgage. And if there were no these obstacles? If you could choose freely, without restrictions? I smiled.

Then I’d travel the world. Maybe become a travel blogger, write about my travels, shoot videos. Share impressions, advice.

Sounds great. And you know what? It’s quite real. Maybe not immediately, not in full.

But gradually, step by step, you could get there. You think? Sure. Look at the world now.

So many opportunities for remote work, content creation, monetizing hobbies. Of course, it takes time, effort, certain investments. But it’s real. If you really want it.

I thought. And Olivia is right. Now there are really so many opportunities that one could only dream of before. Work remotely, travel, create content, earn on your hobbies.

This isn’t just dreams. These are real life options available to many. You know, I never looked at it from that side.

Always thought it was for the chosen ones, those with money, connections, special talents. No, Em, it’s for everyone ready to work, learn, risk. Of course, not all become millionaires and celebrities.

But many find their path, their niche, their audience. And live a life they like. Maybe you’re right. Maybe worth trying.

After dealing with current problems. Definitely. And you know what? I believe you’ll succeed.

You have what it takes for success. Determination, intelligence, adaptability. Look how you’re handling the situation with Michael.

Many would break, fall into depression, start doing stupid things. And you find strength to move on, plan the future. I was touched by these words.

Strangely, support from a person I’d known only 10 days meant a lot to me at that moment. Maybe because Olivia was objective, had no history with me. Wasn’t connected to my past life.

Thanks, Olivia. Really thanks. You don’t even imagine how important your support is to me now. No need, Em.

That’s what friends are for. To support each other, believe in each other when we don’t believe in ourselves. That conversation became a turning point in my vacation.

And perhaps in my life. I started thinking not only about current problems. What to do with Michael, the apartment, work—but also about more global things.

What I want from life, how I see my life in a year, 5 years, 10 years. Who I want to be, where to live, how to spend time. And the more I thought about it, the clearer it became.

My life with Michael as it was before his cheating. That’s not what I really wanted. It was a compromise, convenient, habitual, but not bringing real happiness, real satisfaction.

Maybe his cheating was not an end, but a beginning. Not a tragedy, but an opportunity—an opportunity to change life, start over. Build something new, more matching my true desires and needs.

This thought was strange, unusual, almost blasphemous. How can one perceive a husband’s betrayal as an opportunity, be grateful for cheating, for lies, for humiliation. And yet, there was its own logic, its own truth.

If not for Michael’s cheating, I’d continue living in the illusion of family happiness. Continue compromising, giving up my desires, postponing dreams for later. And now I had the opportunity to change everything, start from a clean slate.

Choose a path that really leads me to happiness. The last days of vacation passed in a new mood. I still thought about Michael, his cheating, the upcoming talk and decisions. But now these thoughts didn’t cause such pain, such bitterness.

Now they were just tasks to solve. Obstacles to overcome on the way to a new life. I even started taking first steps to realize my dream of travels and blogging.

Set up an Instagram account, started posting photos from the vacation. Writing short notes about places we visited, impressions, local cuisine. Nothing special, just practice, trying the pen.

But it was a beginning, a small step to a big dream. Olivia supported me in everything, helped with photos. Gave advice on post design, shared her knowledge in design and marketing.

We even started discussing possibility of a joint project in the future. Maybe a travel site, maybe a series of master classes on organizing independent trips. For now, these were just ideas, dreams, plans.

But they inspired, motivated, gave hope for the future. And finally, the last day of vacation arrived. Tomorrow early morning flight to Chicago, return to reality.

To problems, to decisions that need to be made. Olivia and I decided to spend this last day on the beach, enjoying sun, sea, rest. Before returning to cold, rainy Chicago.

Well, ready to return? Olivia asked when we lay on loungers, sipping cocktails. I thought. Not quite.

But I know it’s inevitable. Can’t run from problems forever. Sooner or later, you have to face them.

And what will you do? With Michael, with the apartment? I think a talk with Michael is inevitable. I must tell him I know about his cheating.

That I saw the camera recording, saw that woman’s things in our bathroom. What I think about it and what I plan to do next. And what do you plan?

Divorce, definitely. I can’t live with a person I don’t trust. And don’t want to. Life is too short to spend on relationships that cause pain.

And the apartment? I’ll consult a lawyer. Probably have to sell, close the mortgage, split the remainder. Or maybe I can buy out Michael’s share, keep the apartment.

But in any case, it’s just property. Not worth clinging to things if they hinder moving forward. Olivia nodded. Wise approach.

And what next? After all this? I smiled. Next, a new life begins.

Perhaps not immediately, not in one day. Step by step, gradually. But I know where I want to go. And I’ll start moving in that direction….

Travels, blog, new impressions, new acquaintances. A life that brings joy, not just obligations and routine. Sounds great.

And you know what? I believe you’ll succeed all. You’re strong, smart, purposeful.

You’ll cope with all problems and build the life you dream of. Thanks, Olivia, for support, for understanding, for this vacation. It was exactly what I needed.

Time to think, rest, understand what I really want. No need, Em. And remember, whatever happens, I’m nearby. If you need help, advice, just a talk.

I’m always in touch. I hugged Olivia, feeling sincere gratitude. How strangely life is arranged. Two weeks ago, we were just acquaintances, ended up on the same vacation because of my husband’s cheating.

And now we’re real friends, supporting each other. Understanding each other, ready to be there in tough times. In the evening, we packed things, prepared for early departure.

Last dinner in the hotel restaurant, last cocktails on the beach, last sunset over the sea. Everything was a bit sad, as always at the end of a good vacation. But at the same time, I felt strange impatience, almost anticipation.

I was ready to return, meet problems, solve them. And move on, to a new life, to new opportunities, to new horizons. Before bed, I checked the phone.

New message from Michael: «Waiting for you tomorrow; we need to talk; I’ll explain everything; please give me a chance.» I didn’t reply; no point. Tomorrow we’ll see each other, and then I’ll say everything I must say.

Everything accumulated over these two weeks, all the truth, all my thoughts, all my decisions. In the morning, Olivia and I went to the airport, went through check-in, boarding. Everything like in a fog, in anticipation, in impatience.

Soon, very soon, I’ll be home, and then a new chapter of my life will begin. The flight went calmly. I slept most of the time; the fatigue accumulated during vacation made itself known.

Olivia read a book, occasionally glancing at me with a smile. She understood I was preparing for a difficult talk, difficult decisions. And gave me space, time to think, gather thoughts.

At Chicago airport, rain met us. Typical fall weather, gray sky, cold wind. After two weeks of Mexican sun, it was especially unpleasant.

But I didn’t let the weather spoil my mood. Even rain and cold couldn’t stop me now. We got baggage, passed passport control, and exited to the arrival hall.

And there, in the crowd of greeters, I saw him—Michael, with a bouquet of flowers. With an expression of hope and anxiety on his face. He saw me, waved, took a step forward.

I turned to Olivia. «Well, there he is; time for me.» Olivia nodded. «Good luck, Em; you’ll manage.

And remember, whatever happens, I’m on your side.» We hugged, exchanged contacts, though we already had them. But it was a kind of ritual, confirmation of our friendship.

And Olivia left, leaving me alone with Michael. Or almost alone, as much as possible in an airport full of people. I approached Michael, feeling strange calm.

No panic, no fear, no uncertainty. Only firm knowledge of what I must do, what I want to do. «Hi,» Michael said, handing me the bouquet.

How was the flight? «Normal,» I replied, taking the flowers more out of politeness than desire. «Thanks.» We stood in the middle of the airport, surrounded by hustle, noise, movement.

Not the most suitable place for a serious talk. «We need to talk, Em,» Michael said, looking into my eyes. «I don’t understand what’s happening, why you did this. But I want to fix everything, whatever happened, whatever you think.

I want to fix it.» I nodded. «Yes, we need to talk, but not here. Let’s go home. To ours or your mom’s.

To ours. To our apartment; it’ll be more convenient there.» Michael clearly cheered up at this decision. Apparently thought I was going to return home, that everything would work out, that everything would be as before.

Poor naive Michael; if only he knew what I had in mind. We left the airport, got in a taxi. The whole way home, we were silent. Michael tried to start a conversation several times.

But I answered monosyllabically, making it clear I don’t want to discuss anything serious in the taxi. With the driver. Finally, we arrived home.

Our home, our apartment. Only now it didn’t seem so dear, so ours, as before. Now it was just a place, property to divide.

From which perhaps I’ll have to refuse to move forward. We entered the apartment; I left the suitcase in the hallway, went to the living room. That same living room where the ficus with the camera stood.

Where two weeks ago I saw Michael with another woman. It was a kind of symbolic point—the place where everything started and where everything ends. Michael followed me, sat on the couch—that same couch where he sat with that woman.

Hugged her, kissed. I preferred to stay standing. So, Michael began, maybe you’ll explain what’s happening. Why you left me a day before vacation, why rebooked the ticket to a friend.

Why didn’t answer calls and messages; what did I do wrong. I looked at him, at his sincere bewilderment, at his anxiety and worry. Does he really not understand, or pretending so well.

Or maybe he thinks I could have learned about his cheating some other way. And now trying to understand how much I know before starting to justify. I know everything, Michael; I saw the camera recording.

I saw how you brought another woman here, how you kissed, hugged. How she stayed overnight; I saw her things in our bathroom. Her toothbrush, her loofah, her cosmetics.

I know you’re cheating on me, and not just cheating. You have a relationship with another woman—serious, long-term relationship. Michael paled; he clearly didn’t expect such directness, such awareness.

What camera; what are you talking about? Don’t pretend, Michael; it’s humiliating. For both of us. I set up the camera in the living room, in the ficus, at Mom’s request.

She saw you with this woman, by chance in a cafe. Followed you for several weeks, and when she realized you were going to bring her to our apartment, called me. Asked to set up the camera. I didn’t believe you could do that to me, but the camera doesn’t lie, right?

Michael sat, head down, clearly trying to find a way out of the situation. Come up with justification, explanation. But what can you say in such a situation; how to justify betrayal, lies, humiliation?

Em, I—he stumbled, then continued—I don’t know what to say. It was a mistake, stupidity, momentary weakness; she means nothing to me. Just entertainment; I love only you, always loved only you.

I almost laughed at the absurdity of these words. Momentary weakness, entertainment—a woman who leaves her things in our bathroom. Who comes to our apartment like home, who spends nights in our bed.

Don’t lie, Michael; don’t make it worse. I saw her things in our bathroom; I saw how she behaved here, like at home. That’s not momentary weakness; that’s a relationship—serious, long-term relationship.

And don’t talk to me about love; people who love don’t betray, don’t lie, don’t humiliate those they supposedly love. Michael raised his eyes; there was something like remorse in them. But was it sincere, or did he just regret getting caught?

That he couldn’t continue his double life, deceiving me, using me. What do you want me to say, Em—that I’m guilty; yes, I’m guilty. That I regret; yes, I regret more than anything in the world.

That I’ll fix everything; yes, I’ll do anything to fix this. Just say what to do, how to atone for my guilt. I shook my head; he still didn’t understand.

He still thought he could fix this, atone for guilt. As if cheating, betrayal, lies is something you can just fix, like a broken faucet or a shattered vase? Nothing, Michael; nothing can be fixed.

Can’t return the trust you destroyed, can’t forget the humiliation I felt. Can’t forget that nothing happened. I came to tell you I’m filing for divorce.

Tomorrow I’ll go to a lawyer, start the process. I hope you won’t create problems, and we can solve everything civilized. We’ll have to sell the apartment, close the mortgage, split the remainder…

Unless you want to buy out my share and keep the apartment. Michael looked at me with sincere horror. Seems only now it dawned on him that I’m not just offended, not just upset.

That I really decided to leave, divorce, end these relationships. Divorce—but Em, we can fix everything. I’ll never again; I swear; it was a mistake, stupidity.

I realized it; I’m ready to change, ready to do everything to regain your trust. I shook my head: no, Michael; nothing can be fixed. And it’s not just about your cheating.

It’s that I realized over these two weeks—our marriage didn’t make me happy. Not truly; it was a compromise, convenience, habit, but not happiness. Not what I really want from life.

What are you saying; we were happy. We had a good marriage, maybe not ideal, but are there ideal relationships? Maybe you were happy, Michael; maybe everything suited you.

Having a wife at home and a mistress on the side. But I—I wasn’t happy; I just didn’t understand it, didn’t admit it to myself. And now I know what I want, and it’s not a marriage with a person I can’t trust.

Michael looked at me with incomprehension, despair, something like fear. Fear of losing not me, not our love, but convenience, stability, illusion of family happiness. You can’t just end it all like that, Em.

Six years of marriage, all our plans, dreams, hopes. Does one mistake cross out all that? It’s not just like that, Michael, and not one mistake.

It’s betrayal, lies, humiliation. And it’s a reason to think about what I really want from life. And you know what—I don’t want a marriage without trust.

Don’t want relationships that don’t make me happy. Don’t want to spend years waiting for you to betray me again. Because you will betray—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in a month.

But sooner or later, because you already proved you’re capable of betrayal, lies, double life. Michael was silent, processing my words, then asked quietly, almost whispering. Did you meet someone else on vacation?

I shook my head, almost with regret. Even now, even at such a moment, he couldn’t believe it was about him, his actions, his betrayal. He looked for external reasons, other explanations.

No, Michael; there’s no one. This decision is about us, about you, about your cheating. And about me, my future, my happiness.

I realized I deserve more, deserve honesty, fidelity, respect. Deserve relationships that make me happy, not just provide stability and comfort. And what are you going to do; where will you go?

For now, stay at Mom’s; then we’ll see—maybe rent an apartment. Maybe buy a new smaller one after selling this. Maybe even leave Chicago; I have plans, dreams I’ve postponed too long.

Time to start realizing them. Michael looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. And maybe it was so. Maybe for the first time he saw the real me—not the convenient wife, not the reliable rear, not the source of stability and comfort.

But a woman with her own desires, dreams, goals. A woman who knows what she wants and is ready to fight for it. Have you really decided? Finally?

Yes, Michael, finally. He lowered his head, accepting defeat—or not defeat. Just reality—reality where his actions have consequences.

Where you can’t betray, lie, lead a double life without punishment. I won’t hold you back, Em, if you’ve really decided. But know, I loved you in my own way—maybe not as you deserve, but loved.

I nodded, not arguing; maybe he really loved me in his own way. His version of love, a version that allowed cheating, lying, humiliating. But that wasn’t the love I wanted, that I deserved.

I’ll take my things today— a bit, the essentials. For the rest, I’ll come later when you’re at work; I’ll leave the keys on the table. And Michael, I hope we can solve all questions with divorce, with the apartment civilized. Without scenes and mutual accusations; it’ll be better for both of us.

Michael nodded, still not raising his eyes. Of course, Em, as you say. I left the living room, went to the bedroom to pack things. Opened the closet, got a bag, started folding clothes, cosmetics, documents.

Everything needed in the coming days; the rest I’ll pick up later. Or maybe leave here; maybe I don’t need these things. These reminders of past life, of unhappy marriage, of betrayal and lies.

Having packed the necessary, I returned to the living room. Michael sat in the same place, in the same pose, with the same expression. Defeated, confused, not understanding how his ideal life, his convenient marriage.

His opportunity to have it all—wife and mistress—suddenly crumbled like a house of cards. I’m leaving, Michael; I’ll call when ready to discuss divorce details. Sale of the apartment—or my lawyer will contact you, whichever is convenient.

He nodded, not looking at me. As you say, Em, and forgive me if you can. I didn’t reply; didn’t know what to say, if I can forgive.

Perhaps someday—not now, not soon. When the pain subsides, when the offense stops burning the heart. When I build a new life and can look back without bitterness.

Then maybe I can forgive—not for him, for myself. I left the apartment without looking back. It was a strange, almost surreal situation.

Leaving a place I considered home, with a suitcase and bag, like a guest, like a stranger. But I felt no regret, no loss. Rather liberation, as if I dropped a heavy load.

That pulled me down, didn’t let me breathe fully. Calling a taxi, I went to Mom’s. She was waiting for me, worried, preparing dinner, knowing I’d come to her after the talk with Michael.

I told her about our conversation, about my decision to divorce. About plans for the future. Mom listened attentively, without interrupting, only sometimes nodding, showing she understands, supports.

You decided right, Em, she said when I finished. Can’t build a life with a person you don’t trust. It’s like a house on sand; sooner or later it’ll collapse.

I nodded, agreeing. Mom always knew how to say the right words at the right moment. Words that supported, consoled, gave strength to move on.

Thanks, Mom, for everything—for always being there. For believing in me even when I didn’t believe myself. For helping me see the truth, even knowing that truth would cause pain. Without you, without that call, I’d still live in illusion, in deception.

In an unhappy marriage with a man who cheated on me. You’d have learned the truth anyway, sooner or later, Mom said. And found strength in yourself to leave, start a new life.

You’re strong, Em. I always believed in you, in your ability to overcome any difficulties, any pain. And I’m proud of you, what woman you’ve become.

What life you’ve built. I felt tears welling up—tears of happiness, gratitude, joy. For you, Mom, for your love, for your support, for your faith in me.

I’ll always be there, Em, always love you. Support you, believe in you, no matter what. The following days passed in hustle and bustle.

I met with a lawyer, discussed divorce details, property division. Learned my rights, possible options, action strategies. Picked up the remaining things from the apartment when Michael wasn’t home.

Returned to work, explained the situation to management. Asked for understanding in this difficult period. Michael didn’t resist, didn’t create problems, didn’t try to hold me back.

Or complicate the divorce process. Maybe he understood he was guilty, deserved it; maybe just resigned to the inevitable. Or maybe that woman, his mistress, was important enough to him.

Not to cling to a marriage that had no future. A week after returning from vacation, I accidentally saw them together—Michael and that woman. Blonde, slim, with confident gait and bright makeup.

They walked down the street, holding hands, talking about something, laughing. Looked happy, in love, carefree. As if there was no betrayal, no lies, no double life.

Strangely, I felt no jealousy, no rage. No desire to approach and make a scene—only light sadness and relief. Yes, precisely relief…

Seeing them together openly, not hiding, was in a way simpler, more honest. Than knowing they meet secretly, behind my back. I passed by, without calling them, without showing I noticed.

That was their life, their choice, their decision. And I had my life, my choice, my decisions. And I was firmly intent on making this life happy, full, meaningful.

The divorce was formalized quickly, without extra complications. Michael agreed to all my conditions, didn’t argue, didn’t bargain. We decided to sell the apartment, close the mortgage, split the remainder. It was fair.

After all, we both invested in this apartment, both paid the mortgage. Both considered it our home. On the day we signed the divorce papers, Michael looked depressed, guilty, almost unhappy.

Not like a person who recently walked with his mistress, laughing and holding hands. «I still regret, Em,» he said when we left the courthouse. «About what happened, how it all ended.

And I want you to know, I really loved you in my own way. Maybe not as you deserve, but loved.» I looked at him, at the man I lived with for six years.

With whom I shared bed, plans, dreams, hopes. Once I loved him, believed him, trusted him. Once he was the center of my universe, the basis of my happiness.

And now he was just a person from the past. A person who caused me pain but also gave me a lesson, experience, knowledge. I believe you, Michael.

And I hope you’ll be happy—truly happy. Not like with me—with her or someone else you’ll meet in the future. He smiled sadly, with gratitude.

«Thanks, Em, and you—you be happy too. You deserve it more than anyone else.» We didn’t hug goodbye, didn’t shake hands. Just nodded to each other, like old acquaintances who met by chance.

And now go their separate ways, each to their affairs, their life. Maybe someday we’ll meet again, maybe be able to talk calmly. Without pain, without offense, maybe even become friends.

But not now. Now we need time, distance, new beginning. The apartment sold quickly; it was in a good area, with good repair, at a reasonable price.

Closed the mortgage, split the remainder. I got my share—not a huge sum, but enough for a new start. For a down payment on a new smaller apartment or for a trip I’ve always dreamed of.

Or for launching my blog, my business, my project. I decided not to rush with new housing; for now, I could live at Mom’s. Save money, think what I really want to do next.

Where to move, what goals to set, what decisions to make. My life gradually acquired new form, new rhythm, new meaning. I still worked at the same agency but started thinking about career change.

About new opportunities, development in another direction. I continued leading my Instagram about travels, adding new posts, new photos. New impressions not only from vacation but also from Chicago—interesting places, small cafes.

Cozy streets, unknown attractions. My account started gaining followers, attracting attention, arousing interest. Olivia remained my close friend. We met regularly, discussed life, work, future plans.

She supported my ideas, helped with content for Instagram. Shared her knowledge in design and marketing, promotion. We even started discussing possibility of a joint project—a travel blog.

A travel site, series of master classes on organizing independent trips. Sarah was also there, supported, helped. She was glad I found strength to leave Michael.

Start a new life, move toward my dreams. «I always knew you were strong,» she said. «Stronger than you think yourself.»

Mom was happy to see me happy. To see how I bloom, find myself, build a new life. She didn’t say «I told you so,» didn’t remind of her doubts about Michael.

Didn’t gloat over his betrayal. She just was there, supported, helped, believed in me. About six months after the divorce, I made a decision.

A decision that changed my life finally and irrevocably. I quit work, rented a small apartment. And bought a ticket—a long, complex route through several Asian countries.

Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia, Indonesia. Three months of travels, discoveries, impressions. Three months living the dream I’d thought about so long but feared to realize.

It was madness. Risk, leap into the unknown, refusal of stability, habitual, safe. But it was my madness, my risk, my choice.

And I was ready. Before departure, I met with Olivia to discuss our joint project. The travel blog we planned to launch. I’ll travel, write texts, take photos, create content.

She’ll handle design, marketing, promotion. Ideal collaboration, ideal partnership. Are you sure you’re ready for this?

Olivia asked when we discussed project details. Three months in foreign countries, alone, without support, without backup. I smiled. Sure as never.

This is what I’ve always dreamed of. What I’ve always wanted, just didn’t allow myself. Feared, doubted, postponed for later.

And now time to make dreams reality. Olivia smiled back. Then go ahead. I’ll wait for your posts, your photos, your stories.

And hold the front here in Chicago. And when you return, we’ll conquer the internet with our blog. I hugged her, feeling sincere gratitude.

For support, for understanding, for faith in me and our project. Thanks, Olivia, for everything. Without you, without that vacation in Mexico.

I don’t know if I’d find strength to take this step. You would, Olivia said confidently. Maybe not immediately, maybe not so quickly. But you would.

You’re strong, Emily. Stronger than you think yourself. And brave. And purposeful.

You’ll definitely succeed. With my help or without. On the eve of departure, I got a message from Michael.

Good luck on the trip. Be careful, take care. And enjoy every moment. You deserve it.

I didn’t know where he learned about my plans—maybe from mutual acquaintances. Maybe saw the announcement on my Instagram. But his message caused no pain, no offense, no regret.

Only light gratitude. For the wish, for support, for him being able to let me go. Allow me to move on. I replied briefly: thanks.

And be happy yourself. Three months in Asia changed me. Externally, internally, completely. I tanned, lost weight, became stronger physically and morally.

I learned to cope with difficulties, solve problems, make decisions. I met many interesting people, saw many amazing places. Experienced many new emotions.

I lived a full, saturated, bright life. A life I’d always dreamed of. I led the blog, wrote about my travels, shared impressions. Gave advice, told stories.

My account gained followers; my posts got likes and comments. My stories resonated with readers. It wasn’t just a hobby, not just a way to share impressions.

It was becoming work, profession, calling. When I returned to Chicago, Olivia and I launched our project. Travel blog Around the World with Emily and Olivia. I handled content; she design and marketing.

We worked as a single team, complemented each other, supported each other. And our project started gaining momentum, attracting readers, followers, partners. A year after the divorce, I bought a small but cozy apartment in a suburban district of Chicago.

Not in the center, not in a prestigious place, but it was my home, my space. My territory, my fortress—a place where I could be myself. Live by my rules, build my life.

On the day I got the keys to the new apartment, I invited Mom, Olivia, and Sarah for housewarming. A small celebration in the new home with champagne, cake. With joy and anticipation of a new life chapter.

«To the new home!» Mom said, raising her glass. «To new life! To new Emily! To strength, to courage, to determination!» Sarah added.

«To finding strength to leave the past, move to the future! To dreams becoming reality!» Olivia said. «To goals achieved! To plans realized!»

I raised my glass, feeling tears welling up. Tears of happiness, gratitude, joy. «To you!» I said.

«For being there! For believing in me! For supporting! Without you, without you I wouldn’t have managed!»

We drank, hugged, laughed. It was a moment of pure, unclouded happiness—a moment of unity, understanding, support. A moment I’ll remember forever…

Two years after the divorce, I accidentally met Michael at the airport. I was returning from another trip—Morocco, two weeks for the blog. He was meeting someone, standing with a bouquet of flowers.

Nervously glancing at the arrivals board. We saw each other at the same time, froze for a moment. Then he smiled and waved to me.

I smiled back, approached. «Hi!» I said. «Long time no see! Hi, Emily; you look great!»

I really looked good—tanned, slim. In comfortable but stylish travel clothes, confident, calm, happy. «Thanks; you look good too!» He really looked good—maybe a bit older, maybe a bit tired.

But overall good, healthy, groomed, in an expensive suit, with a fashionable haircut. «Who are you meeting?» I asked, nodding at the bouquet. «Amanda, my wife; she’s returning from a business trip.

Wife—I couldn’t hide surprise—you got married?» «Yes, six months ago; that same girl!» «Well, you know!» I nodded; that same girl.

Blonde, slim, with confident gait and bright makeup. The girl he cheated on me with, the girl because of whom our marriage fell apart. «Congratulations!» I said, and strangely, I was really sincere.

«Hope you’re happy!» «Thanks!» He looked a bit embarrassed, a bit guilty. «We try; it’s not always simple, but we try!»

I nodded, understanding what he meant. Relationships started with deception, betrayal, cheating. They carry this burden, this shadow, this curse.

As it came, so it goes, my grandma said. Relationships built on lies rarely are strong, rarely bring real happiness. And you, Michael asked; I see your blog—great work.

You travel a lot, write a lot, look happy. I am happy! I smiled. Doing what I love, living how I want.

What could be better? And personal life—sorry for the indiscreet question. I shook my head. Nothing serious.

Dates, light relationships, but nothing serious; not ready for more yet. I understand. He nodded: after everything that happened, after what I did.

Probably hard to trust again. I thought. He was right, of course. His betrayal left a scar that doesn’t heal so easily.

But it wasn’t just that. Not just fear of being betrayed again, deceived, humiliated. It was about my life.

The life I built, the life I liked. I wasn’t ready to sacrifice my freedom, my travels, my projects for relationships. At least not for ordinary, traditional relationships that require compromises, concessions, sacrifices.

It’s not just about trust, Michael. It’s that I found myself, found my path, my life. And don’t want to sacrifice it for relationships that may not bring happiness.

He nodded, understanding—maybe even envying a bit my freedom, my confidence, my integrity. You’ve changed, Emily. In a good way.

Became stronger. More confident. I’m glad for you. Really glad.

Thanks. I smiled. And I’m glad we can talk like this—calmly, without offenses, without reproaches. It’s important to me.

For me too. He paused, then added. I’ll always regret what I did. How it all ended.

But maybe it was necessary. Maybe it was better this way. For both of us. I nodded.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe our marriage had to end exactly like that. Maybe only this way I could find my path, my life, my happiness.

Maybe it wasn’t a tragedy, but a necessary change. Painful, difficult, but necessary. Take care, Michael, I said, preparing to leave. And be happy.

Truly happy. And you, Emily. And you. We didn’t hug goodbye, didn’t shake hands.

Just nodded to each other, smiled. And went our separate ways, each on their road, their life. Leaving the airport, I took a deep breath, exposing my face to the spring sun.

Strange meeting, strange conversation. But in something important, needed, right. Closing the past chapter, final farewell to past life.

Acceptance, forgiveness, liberation. I called a taxi, went home—to my home, my life, my future. A life I built myself, by my rules, by my desires.

A life that made me happy, full, real. On the way, I thought about that strange night when Mom called me. And asked to set up a camera in the living room, about how my life changed from that moment.

About how pain, betrayal, humiliation—they became a push to a new life. To new opportunities, to new happiness. I thought about the strange paths of fate, about unexpected turns.

About trials that become opportunities. About how what seems an end can become a beginning. How what seems a tragedy can become a blessing.

And I thought about Mom, about the woman who always wanted the best for me. Always strived to protect me, save from mistakes and pain. About the woman who found strength to show me the truth, even knowing that truth would cause pain.

About the woman who believed in me, in my strength. In my ability to overcome difficulties and build a new life. Approaching home, I dialed her number.

«Hi, Mom; I’m back. I’ll come to you tomorrow, okay? Tell about Morocco, show photos, brought souvenirs. Of course, Em; I’ll wait.

How was the flight? Good. And you know, I met Michael at the airport. Michael—in Mom’s voice sounded worry.

And how is he? Fine, married that same girl. Met her at the airport; we talked calmly, without offenses, without reproaches. It was strange, but in something right.

Are you okay? Mom asked. After this meeting? I smiled.

Yes, Mom; I’m okay. More than okay. I’m happy. You know, I suddenly realized that everything that happened—maybe it was for the best.

Maybe only this way I could find my path, my life, my happiness. Mom was silent, then said quietly, with light sadness in her voice. I always knew you were strong, Em.

Always believed in you, in your ability to overcome any difficulties, any pain. And I’m proud of you, what woman you’ve become. What life you’ve built.

I felt tears welling up—tears of gratitude, love, appreciation. Thanks, Mom, for everything—for always being there. For believing in me even when I didn’t believe myself.

For helping me see the truth, even knowing that truth would cause pain. Without you, without that call, I’d still live in illusion, in deception. In an unhappy marriage with a man who cheated on me.

You’d have learned the truth anyway, sooner or later. And found strength to leave, start a new life. You’re strong, Em, stronger than you think yourself. I smiled, wiping tears.

Maybe, but I’m glad everything happened exactly this way. Glad I had you with your love, with your support, with your faith in me. I’ll always be there, Em, always love you.

Support you, believe in you, no matter what. I know, Mom, I know, and I love you, more than anything in the world. The taxi arrived at my home; I said goodbye to Mom.

Promised to come tomorrow, and got out of the car. Raised my eyes to the windows of my apartment—bright, cozy, with colorful curtains and green plants on the sills. My home, my space, my life.

I smiled, took a deep breath, felt. Home—not just an apartment, not just walls, floor, ceiling. Home—a place where I can be myself, where I’m happy, where I’m safe.

And at this moment, standing in the middle of my living room, surrounded by things I chose myself. Photos from travels, books, souvenirs, memories. At this moment, I understood finally and irrevocably.

I regret nothing—not the marriage with Michael, even his cheating. The pain, the disappointment—because all this, all this led me here. To this life, to this home, to this happiness, to the real me.

And if I could return to that night when Mom called me. And asked to set up a camera in the living room. And if I could change my decision, not agree, not learn the truth.

I wouldn’t do that; I’d still set up that camera. Still see the truth, still go this path. Because only this way, only through this pain, this betrayal, this disappointment.

Only this way I could find my real life, my real happiness. My real self.