My Daughter Walked in on My Husband’s Accidental Bedroom Betrayal

And seeing him on another woman’s social media sealed the deal.

Owned and created by the author, yours truly, in Canva.

My husband fled the tornado-ravaged warzone of a bedroom without so much as a “goodbye”, leaving a pile of reject garments in his wake as the dead giveaway that his flight was, indeed, commercial. Private planes wait for you; commercial flights don’t, and men like my husband make that distinction crystal clear based on the degree of chaos leading up to their departure.

As I began rifling through the wrinkled carcasses of jilted button-downs, I batted away the intrusive thoughts attempting to claw their way to the front of my consciousness. Karma only gets us when we know it’s right around the bend, and I could feel myself tempting fate, shamefully wishing I’d stumble upon Hubby’s wallet or passport or some other trip-halting consequence of rush-induced amnesia. I wasn’t mad he was going; it was more the secrecy surrounding the Abu Dhabi trip and the fact that my BFF hid her adjoining schedule from me that sparked my distrust-fueled resentment.

My hand groped around in the thinning pile, searching for a missing cufflink to join the naked orifice at a stiff shirt’s left wrist, but my fingers instead grazed a foreign velvet surface. It was hard, flat, and camouflaged beneath the remaining 50 shades of cotton and silk.

“Mom — is that…?!”

My daughter walked by moments after I’d opened the LED-illuminated velvet box, its shimmering contents staring coldly back up at me. She pounced towards the bed, eagerly diving into the unfamiliar diamonds.

“OMG, did Dad get you that?! Yasmin just got the same one — I saw her unbox it on IG for her anniversary last week!”

Any other wife might be flattered by the accidental discovery, but I know my husband, and even without the damning yellow post-it I quickly shielded from my daughter’s eyes, I knew it wasn’t for me. What I don’t know is what will happen when my husband shows up to Abu Dhabi empty-handed, and I’m the one holding the bag — well, the box…

The perfect scapegoat

Four agile hooves pranced onto my arched back, followed by the tickling drizzle of tiny…