After My Husband Sold Our House for His Nanny

I bought the cameras online. Three of them. Small, black, the kind that look like phone chargers when you plug them into the wall. The reviews said they were easy to install. The reviews said the video quality was good even in low light. The reviews said they were perfect for people who needed to know the truth.

I didn't read the reviews about divorce cases. I didn't need to.

They arrived in two days. I waited until Trevor left for work. I waited until Kaeli took the kids to the park—she always took them to the park on Wednesday mornings, always for exactly ninety minutes. I watched her car pull out of the driveway. I counted to sixty. Then I opened the box.

The first camera went in the living room, angled toward the couch. The second went in the kitchen, tucked behind the fruit bowl on the counter. The third went in the hallway outside the master bedroom, positioned to catch anyone coming or going.

I tested each one from my phone. The app was simple. Three live feeds, clear and silent. I could see the empty living room. The clean kitchen. The hallway with its runner rug and the framed photos of our wedding day on the wall.

I deleted the app from my home screen and buried it in a folder labeled "Recipes."

Then I made lunch. I folded laundry. I wiped down the counters. When Kaeli came back with the kids, I smiled and asked how the park was.

"Great," she said. "Emma made a new friend."

"That's wonderful," I said.

She went upstairs to put Liam down for his nap. I went into the study and locked the door.

I opened our bank accounts on the desktop. Joint savings. Joint checking. The investment account Trevor's father had set up for us when we got married. I started with January and worked backward.

The first transfer was small. Five hundred dollars, moved from savings to an account I didn't recognize. The memo line said "household expenses." I clicked through to the next month. Another transfer. A thousand this time. Then fifteen hundred. Then three thousand.

I opened a new tab and searched the account number. It took less than a minute to find it. Kaeli Hunt. Personal checking.

My hands were steady. I took a screenshot. I saved it to a folder I labeled "Tax Documents 2024."

I kept going.

Designer handbags. A Chanel purchase for forty-two hundred dollars. A Louis Vuitton charge for thirty-eight hundred. A lease payment for a BMW—monthly, automatic, fifty-nine hundred dollars each time. A spa retreat in Napa. A luxury apartment deposit downtown, first and last month's rent, twelve thousand dollars total.

All of it from our joint accounts. All of it while I was home with our children, washing dishes and folding laundry and believing my husband when he said he loved me.

I took screenshots of everything. I organized them by date. I added them to the folder. My chest felt tight, but my hands didn't shake.

By the time I finished, it was almost three o'clock. I heard Kaeli downstairs, talking to Emma. I heard the television turn on. I closed every tab, cleared the browser history, and walked downstairs like nothing had happened.

Trevor came home early that night. He had flowers—white roses, my favorite. He kissed me in the kitchen and said he'd made reservations.

"For what?" I asked.

"Our anniversary. I know it's not until next week, but I wanted to do something special tonight."

I looked at the roses. At his face. At the smile that used to make me feel safe.

"That's sweet," I said. "Let me get changed."

The restaurant was the same one where we'd celebrated our first anniversary. Waterfront view, white tablecloths, candles on every table. Trevor ordered my favorite wine without asking. He reached across the table and took my hand.

"You know I love you, right?" he said.

"I know," I said.

"You're the foundation of everything good in my life. This family. Our home. I don't say it enough, but I see everything you do. I see how hard you work."

I squeezed his hand. I smiled. I said all the right things.

But under the table, I saw his other hand. I saw his thumb moving. The small, rhythmic motion of someone texting. He thought I couldn't see. He thought I didn't notice.

I noticed everything now.

When we got home, I waited until he fell asleep. Then I took his phone from the nightstand. The passcode was still our wedding date. He hadn't even bothered to change it.

I opened his messages.

Kaeli's name was at the top. I scrolled through. Weeks of texts. Months, maybe. Some of them were logistical—what time she'd be home, what the kids needed. But most of them weren't.

*I can't stop thinking about you.*

*Two more days and I'll have you all to myself again.*

*She has no idea. She never will.*

I read every word. I didn't cry. I didn't make a sound. I took screenshots of everything and airdropped them to my phone. Then I deleted the airdrop notification from his phone, put it back on the nightstand, and lay down beside him.

He stirred in his sleep and reached for me. His arm settled across my waist.

I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.