My name is Gloria. My boyfriend, Harrison, and I have been together for three whole years. Last week, we put a deposit down on a cute little Craftsman house in the suburbs. We had names picked out for our future kids. We have a joint Costco membership, which, in Millennial terms, is practically marriage.

Friday nights are our movie nights. It’s been our tradition since the second month of our relationship. We take turns picking the movie, make fancy popcorn—I’m talking nutritional yeast and everything—and just chill together. It’s honestly been my favorite part of the week for years.

This past Friday was Harrison’s turn. He chose some boring documentary about cryptocurrency. About 45 minutes in, I noticed he was completely knocked out on the couch, not surprising since he claimed he’d been working late all week on a big project. I was about to wake him up to go to bed when his phone, sitting on the coffee table, lit up. Then it lit up again. And again.

And y’all, his phone was unlocked. The messages were right there on the lock screen, from someone saved as “Work Project 💻.”

At first, I thought nothing of it. But then I read the preview text.

“Miss your touch already.” “Last night was amazing.” “Can’t wait to see you again tomorrow 😉”

My heart literally stopped. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone had punched me directly in the stomach and then threw me off a cliff. Three years. All the plans, all the promises, all the “I love yous.” Were they all lies?

I’ll admit, I did something I never thought I would do. I picked up his phone. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock it, but he was sound asleep. I quickly scrolled through the conversation. My gut told me I needed to see the truth.

And wow, the truth was ugly. This wasn’t just flirty texts. There were plans for hotel meetups, explicit messages, and photos that I immediately wished I could unsee. Based on the timestamps, this had been going on for at least two months. There were even messages about me, about how he was “handling the Gloria situation” and how he was trying to “figure things out” but didn’t want to hurt me. The audacity.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw his phone through the window. I wanted to shake him awake and demand answers. But something inside me, something cold and calculating that I didn’t even know existed, told me to wait.

So, I gently placed his phone back on the coffee table, exactly where it was. I pulled the throw blanket over him, like a loving girlfriend would. Then I went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and had the quietest, most violent panic attack of my life, my whole body shaking as I tried not to make a sound.

I spent the rest of the night pretending to sleep while my mind raced. Who was this person? How long had this really been going on? Was this why he’d been working late so often? What about our house? The deposit was most of my savings.

The next morning was surreal. Harrison woke up, kissed my forehead, and acted like everything was normal. He even made me breakfast and talked about paint colors for the new house. I have never been an actress, but that day, I deserved an Oscar. I smiled and nodded and pretended that my entire world hadn’t just been shattered into a million pieces.

As soon as he left for his Saturday morning gym session—which I now realized was probably a meet-up with “Work Project”—I called my best friend, Sally. She came over immediately.

“We need evidence,” she said, her voice firm. “Hard, undeniable evidence.”

Harrison and I share a credit card for household expenses. We logged into the account online, and there it was. Dinners at restaurants I’d never been to. Uber rides at odd hours to and from an apartment complex across town. A hotel charge from last weekend, when he told me he was on a “business trip.” I felt physically sick.

The more we looked, the more we found. Every suspicion I’d pushed down over the last few months came rushing back. The late nights, the new Dior cologne he started wearing, the sudden password changes on his laptop. It all made a horrifying kind of sense.

I didn’t want to just confront him and have him gaslight me. I didn’t want to just walk away and let him spin some narrative about how we’d “grown apart.” I wanted him to feel the same earth-shattering pain that I was feeling.

That evening, I was the perfect girlfriend. I made his favorite dinner. I didn’t question him when he was texting and smiling at his phone, even though I now knew who it was. I had to keep up appearances.

The next morning, I casually mentioned I might have a work trip the following weekend. He immediately perked up. He tried to hide it, but I could see the wheels turning in his head, already planning what he would do with the apartment all to himself. It confirmed everything.

On Tuesday, Harrison’s marketing firm had their monthly team happy hour, and partners were invited. I usually skipped them, but this time, I made sure to attend. I needed to see her in person.

And y’all, I met “Work Project.” Her name is Dina. She’s the new creative director, who started about three months ago. Harrison introduced us so casually, as if my world wasn’t imploding as I shook her hand. She was exactly what you’d expect: gorgeous, confident, stylish.

The way they interacted was so obvious once I knew what to look for. The inside jokes, the lingering eye contact, the way he kept finding excuses to stand near her. At one point, I went to the bathroom and circled back, only to find them in a corner, speaking intensely with their heads close together. They jumped apart when someone else approached.

I wanted to throw my drink in both their faces. Instead, I smiled, walked over, and complimented her earrings. “They’re beautiful,” I said, looking her straight in the eye. “Harrison has great taste.”

When we were leaving, I overheard her tell him, in a fake, sympathetic voice, “Your girlfriend seems so sweet.” I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep from losing it.

That night, Harrison was extra affectionate, probably out of guilt. He even suggested we look at furniture for the new house online. The audacity. I sat there, picking out couches with him, while imagining setting fire to everything he owned.

On Wednesday, I decided to take some of your suggestions about tracking his movements. I downloaded our phone carrier’s app, which shows the location history for phones on our family plan. It was a gold mine. Every Tuesday and Thursday, when he claimed to be “working late,” his phone was at an address across town. A quick Google search showed it was an apartment complex. And whose name came up when I cross-referenced the address with social media? Dina’s.

On Thursday, while he was at her apartment, I did a deep dive into our finances. I found charges for nice restaurants, wine shops, and a jewelry store from last month. I have received exactly zero pieces of jewelry from Harrison in the last six months. The date of purchase was the day before Valentine’s Day. He gave me a card.

Friday was movie night again. The irony was not lost on me. This time, I watched him instead of the movie. The way he kept checking his phone, angling it away from me. After he fell asleep, I checked his phone again. The conversation with “Work Project” had been deleted. But there was a new chat with a contact named “D 🌹” that was obviously Dina. They were making plans for next weekend, when I was supposedly going to be on my work trip.

Which brings me to my current plan.

I have told Harrison I’ll be leaving Thursday night for a healthcare conference in Denver. In reality, I will be at Sally’s apartment across town, watching everything unfold via the doorbell camera I secretly installed yesterday while he was at the gym.

Based on their texts, Dina will be coming over Friday night. To our apartment. Probably sleeping in our bed. The thought makes me physically ill, but it will be the final proof I need. While they’re playing house in my absence, I will be executing the next phase.

Last Thursday, I kissed Harrison goodbye, my overnight bag packed for my “conference.” He told me he’d miss me and that he’d just be catching up on work. The lies this man tells with a straight face.

I drove around the block and headed straight to Sally’s. We set up a command center with snacks, wine, and my laptop. I finalized everything. I sent a notarized letter to the escrow company, withdrawing from the house purchase. I transferred my portion of our joint savings to my new, private account.

Around 7:30 p.m., the doorbell camera alerted us. And there she was. Dina. Harrison greeted her with a deep, passionate kiss right in the doorway of the home we were supposed to share.

That’s when something inside me shifted. Sally said my whole face changed. I wasn’t sad anymore. I was done.

I hit record. I captured everything. The kiss, them going inside, even their conversation about how nice it was to finally have the place to themselves. The audio was crystal clear. You could literally hear Harrison telling Dina how excited he was for a “Harrison and Dina weekend” without having to worry about Gloria. I saved that recording.

The next morning, I went to our apartment while I knew they would be out. Sally brought her two brothers to help. We worked like a well-oiled machine. I only took what was undeniably mine: clothes, personal items, family heirlooms. I left all the joint purchases. I wasn’t interested in stuff; I just wanted out.

Before I left, I did one final sweep. In the bathroom, I found her hairbrush and makeup on my vanity. In the kitchen, two wine glasses in the sink. The evidence of their night together was everywhere.

I left my key on the counter, along with a few printed text screenshots and credit card statements—just enough to let him know I wasn’t clueless. I kept the recordings for myself. For now. Then I blocked him on everything.

His emails started coming to my work address, the one I’d forgotten to block. First confusion, then pleading, then anger that I had “invaded his privacy” and acted so drastically.

The audacity of this man to act like I was the one who had done something wrong. That’s when the rage I’d been suppressing finally boiled over.

I created a private link to the doorbell recordings—the kiss, the conversation, everything. And I sent it to Harrison’s parents. I didn’t include an angry message. I simply wrote: “I thought you should know why Harrison and I won’t be buying the house together after all. I’m sorry to send this, but you deserve the truth.”

Ten minutes later, Harrison’s phone apparently blew up with calls from his parents. How do I know? Because he sent me twenty frantic texts from his friend’s phone about how I had “ruined his life.”

But I wasn’t done. I also sent the link to his boss. Their company has a strict policy against inter-office relationships, especially between people at different levels. Harrison had recently received a promotion that should have gone to a deserving coworker. He got it partly because Dina had advocated for him.

By Saturday afternoon, word had spread through our friend group. That evening, Harrison’s mother called me. To my shock, she wasn’t angry at me. She was devastated by what her son had done. She thanked me for showing her the truth and apologized for “raising such a dishonest man.”

About a week after I sent the recordings, I was having coffee at a little cafe when I heard someone say my name. It was Harrison. He looked like hell. He asked if he could sit. I needed closure, so I nodded.

He tried to explain. The affair had started as flirting, then drinks, then more. He claimed he never meant for it to happen, that he was stressed about the house, that he still loved me. But then he said something surprising. He wasn’t angry about the recordings. He said after the initial humiliation, he realized it was exactly what he deserved.

His parents had given him the disappointment talk of a lifetime and made him pay back their portion of the house deposit. At work, he’d been put on probation and removed from Dina’s department.

I asked him one question. “If I hadn’t found out, how long would you have continued lying to my face every day?”

He couldn’t answer. And that told me everything.

I told him calmly that I forgave him, not for his sake, but for mine, because I refused to carry his anger. The look on his face—it was like he’d been preparing for a fight and had no defense against compassion. I left him sitting there.

It’s been six months now. I found a cute studio apartment that is just mine. I started therapy. Best decision ever.

As for Dina, she reached out a couple of months ago. She transferred back to her company’s Chicago office. She told me Harrison had been lying to her, too, telling her our relationship was basically over. She apologized and wished me well.

Last I heard, Harrison transferred to his company’s Seattle office for a “fresh start.” His parents still call me occasionally. His mom even sent me a care package on my birthday.

The house we almost bought sold to another couple. I drove by it recently and felt nothing but relief. Last week, I was unpacking the last box in my new apartment and found an old birthday card from him. It read, “To many more years of adventure together.” A few months ago, finding this would have sent me into a spiral. This time, I just smiled sadly and threw it away. The adventure he wanted wasn’t one I was ever meant to be a part of. And for the first time, I’m okay with that.