I go by Andrew Baker, but my friends call me AB. Never Andy. I’m a simple guy who enjoys a straightforward life. As an engineer for a large national company, I find satisfaction in my work, my friends, and the occasional beer. For twenty-five years, I’ve been happily married to Karen, a high school English teacher. We have two amazing daughters, Claire and Denise, both now in college on impressive scholarships.

With the girls away, I had imagined an empty nest full of rediscovered love—dinners out, movies, and a rekindling of the connection that had been the foundation of our lives. But reality had other plans. Karen was changing.

She’s a frustrated writer, you see. Her dream of literary greatness was a collection of rejection letters from magazines. She was part of a writing group, a mix of genuinely talented people and those who, in my opinion, were just playing a part. There was Reggie, a sharp historian; Betty, who wrote charming fantasy tales; and Bill, the group’s resident know-it-all.

And then there was Frank.

The first time I met him, alarms went off in my head. He had a smirk that passed for a smile and an air of superiority. I noticed early on that when he talked with Karen, they shared private jokes, a connection that made me uncomfortable. She brushed off my concerns, and I learned not to push. Trust, after twenty-five years, is fundamental. You don’t question. Or so I believed.

One evening in early March, I was in the next room and overheard their meeting. The topic shifted to the lifestyles of “true writers.”

“You know, all the famous writers were alcoholics,” someone said.

“And they all had passionate, illicit affairs,” Frank added smoothly. “That’s what truly motivated them. The intensity, the thrill.”

Then Karen’s voice hit me like a punch to the gut. “Oh, absolutely. It’s the excitement of keeping it all hidden. That’s where the genuine inspiration is found.”

I told myself it was just a joke, just writers being dramatic. Then the conversation turned to a summer writer’s workshop in Illinois.

“I’ve applied,” Karen announced, the first I’d heard of it.

“I’m sure they’ll accept you,” Frank cooed. “Your writing has shown so much improvement this past year. I’ve applied as well.”

My internal radar for nonsense was screaming, but I buried it. This was my wife. The woman who had shown her commitment year after year. All I wanted was for her to find the happiness she deserved.

In late April, I was coming inside from the garden when I heard Karen on the phone.

“I can’t wait. Six whole weeks without any responsibilities, no commitments, and no one waiting for me to get back.” I froze, my hand on the doorknob. “It’s going to be the most self-indulgent six weeks of my life. I owe it to myself, and so do you.”

I pushed the door open. She seemed startled. “Well, I have to run, AB is here,” she said quickly and hung up. “Just Reggie,” she lied, “talking about the end of the school year.”

Later that night, she told me she’d been accepted to the workshop. I suggested I could take some time off and join her, to support her.

“Oh, well… we can consider it,” she deflected. “It’s going to be a really intense six weeks. I won’t have much free time to spend with you.”

I knew that tone. She was going to make sure I wouldn’t end up in Illinois. Weeks passed, and every time I brought it up, she dismissed the idea. Then came the manipulation.

“AB, I’ve got the most exciting news!” she announced one evening. “I got you and Jake two tickets to a fishing camp in Northern Canada for late June! I wanted to thank you for being so understanding, and I felt guilty you wouldn’t be enjoying yourself.”

“Thanks, dear,” I said, my voice flat. “Honestly, I’d have a better time with you.”

“AB, we’ve been through this. It’s just not logical. I’ll be working, and I’d feel bad neglecting you.”

I studied her face, seeing the condescension behind her feigned concern. I headed down to the basement to tinker. Our old house has a floor grate in the hallway that lets heat rise from the furnace room. As I was contemplating my next move, I overheard her making another call.

“Yes, I gave him the tickets… he’s still hesitant… No, I can’t just tell him not to come… I understand, and I want that too, but I want to stay married afterward… Yes, I want those weeks with you as well… Okay, baby. I miss you too.”

Baby. The word echoed in the silence of the basement. I felt a lump form in my throat. I recognized infidelity when I heard it.

I spent the next two hours with my best friend, Jake, laying out the whole sordid story. He was stunned. “You need to talk to her, AB. You can’t just assume the worst.”

“And what’s she going to say?” I shot back. “I’ll bet you anything the call I just heard was to Frank.”

Later that night, I sat Karen down and told her my concerns—the lies, the secrecy, the feeling I was being pushed away.

She exploded. “AB, I have never been unfaithful to you! It really hurts me that you could even think that!”

For the next week, she gave me the silent treatment, a tactic meant to force me to back down. It didn’t work. It only strengthened my conviction. I realized I wasn’t making progress this way, so I let her believe she had won. I thanked her for the trip. Her demeanor instantly switched back to the loving wife, a manipulation so transparent it only heightened my suspicion. If she was planning to cheat, I couldn’t stop her. But I could prepare.

I contacted a private investigator in Illinois.

The workshop took place on a state university campus, providing ample opportunity for inconspicuous surveillance. My PI’s reports started coming in almost immediately. They were brutal and efficient.

Karen had removed her wedding rings on the plane. She openly claimed to be recently divorced. She and Frank were inseparable from day one—holding hands, sharing kisses, acting like infatuated teenagers. They each had an assigned dorm room but only ever used one, spending every night together.

The final straw came a week in. My PI’s team slipped a miniature fisheye camera under their dorm room door. The resulting 20-minute video was shockingly clear. That was it. My decision was made. I was done.

My revenge wouldn’t be loud or violent. It would be silent and absolute. I would take away the one thing she always took for granted: the steady, reliable presence that had supported her for twenty-five years. I was taking myself away.

The audio recordings were the hardest to bear.

“He’s always texting me about the fish he’s catching,” I heard her say, followed by a laugh. “He’s clueless.”

Frank joined in. “Keep him in the dark. Treat him like a mushroom.”

“When I return, I’ll confront that nerd about his accusations,” she seethed. “How dare he keep accusing me of cheating!”

“But you are taking a little break from our marriage, right, beautiful?” Frank teased. “Or is that another woman sharing my bed every night?”

She actually giggled at that. My methodical, engineering mind took over. I began the process of distancing myself. I spoke to my boss, who arranged a transfer to our office in Portland, Maine. I scheduled movers. I consulted a lawyer. I removed Karen’s name from my assets, making my daughters the sole beneficiaries. I signed a quitclaim deed for the house, granting it to her in exchange for no alimony. She could keep her car; she would have to handle her own insurance.

I was becoming a ghost.

The night before she was due to return, I had a change of heart. My initial plan was to be long gone when she arrived. But I wanted her to feel the pain right away.

I sent her an email. The subject line was blank. The body contained only three carefully chosen photos and three repeated words.

The first photo was of them on a dance floor, her hand bare of her wedding rings. The second showed them walking hand-in-hand into his dorm room. The third was a screenshot from the video, her face unmistakable.

Beneath the images, the text read: Divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you.

Then I turned off my phone, grabbed my two suitcases and my guitar, and walked out of the house that had been our home for most of my life. The feeling was a mix of pain, uncertainty, and a profound, newfound freedom.

My journey north was a transition from my old life to my new one. But first, I had to see my daughters. I couldn’t let them hear it from their mother. I drove to Brown University and sat with my eldest, Claire. I showed her the photos and played the audio. Her emotions shifted from sadness to pure rage.

“I can’t believe Mom would do that!” she cried. “Is she even the same person who raised us? What kind of disgusting person has she turned into?”

“Claire,” I said gently, “regardless of what she’s done, she’s still your mother. It’s me she betrayed, not you.”

“Sorry, Dad,” she shot back, tears in her eyes. “But she shattered my only family. This is absolutely affecting me.” She was right.

Next was Boston, to see Denise. She was more composed but no less angry. While I was with her, her mother called. Denise put the phone on speaker.

“Dad called last night, didn’t he?” Denise’s voice was ice. “Is it true? You’ve become a woman who cheats on her husband and lies about it? You spent six weeks with someone else while Dad was home alone? Was it worth it, Mom? Was it worth losing your marriage over?”

I was stunned by her ferocity but proud of her strength. They were going to be okay. I was the one who needed to heal.

I arrived in Portland, Maine, and was met with a warm welcome from my new colleagues. They had heard my story and offered nothing but support. A few days later, I finally called Karen.

The conversation was unsatisfying. She swung between blame, guilt, and denial. It was Frank’s influence. I was suffocating her. It was my fault because I worked too much. She had the audacity to claim nothing “serious” happened, that she was just searching for “creative inspiration.”

When she finally fell silent, I laid it out for her. “You conspired with Frank to betray me. You resisted my efforts to salvage our relationship. You carried out the betrayal. And now you are facing the consequences. I no longer care about the ‘whys’.”

I hung up while she was still crying. I was done.

Life is different now. I have a simple two-bedroom apartment near the office. I spend more quality time with my daughters than ever before; they visit monthly, bringing their friends and filling my quiet apartment with life. I’ve reconnected with old friends and made new ones in Maine’s sailing community.

The divorce will be official soon. Karen still reaches out, never truly repenting, preferring to downplay her actions. “Everyone does it,” she says. “It doesn’t mean anything.” But it does. The intimacy carries weight, and the deceit matters more.

My heart isn’t fully healed, not yet. But standing on the summit of Mount Washington on my way here, feeling the cold wind and seeing the vast world spread out below, I finally felt a rebirth. I was alone, but at last, I was standing tall.

Oh, and as a side note: Frank’s wife, it seems, is as old-fashioned as I am. She kicked him out and divorced him. And after all that “inspiration”? Both Karen and Frank remain unpublished.