When Nancy stumbles upon an unexpected letter in her husband David’s laundry, her picture-perfect life begins to crumble.

The note, penned by David, invites an enigmatic woman to commemorate their “seven-year anniversary.”

What further secrets could the laundry unveil?

In our home, doing the laundry was part of mom’s routine. While David was helpful in the kitchen and with the kids, laundry and bathroom chores were off-limits for him.

“I can’t handle the hair in the drain,” he grimaced when I asked him to pitch in.

“It’s just my hair, and our daughter’s,” I laughed.

“Still gross,” he replied.

Yet the rhythmic sound of the washer and the dryer provided me with a calming solitude I cherished. It became my time to unwind.

That is, until laundry day unearthed more than just soiled clothes.

As I rifled through David’s garments, a faint crinkle of paper interrupted my otherwise mindless task. A neatly folded letter slipped out from a shirt, landing softly on the floor.

Happy anniversary, babe! These 7 years have been the best of my life! Meet me at Obélix on Wednesday night, 8 p.m. Wear red.

The handwriting was unmistakably David’s — the distinct loops and the firm strokes of his pen sent chills down my spine.

Seven years? David and I have been married for eighteen. We have two daughters, and our anniversary is still six months away.

And Obélix? The most upscale restaurant in town? Just recently, David insisted we cut back on spending.

“We need to cook more at home, Nancy,” he had stated. “Less takeout. The girls will just have to adjust — we’ve been wasting money.”

“Are we in financial trouble?” I had wondered aloud.

“No, not at all,” he reassured me. “It’s just good to be prudent.”

The anticipation for Wednesday became all-consuming. I was determined to uncover the truth behind David’s secretive note. The day after the discovery, I checked his shirt pocket again, but it was empty.

Signed, sealed, and delivered, I mused.

“I’m working late tonight, honey,” he announced while I was preparing breakfast.

“Should I save you a plate, or will you eat out?” I asked, fully aware of his dinner plans with the mysterious woman in red.

“I’ll grab something on my way back,” he replied, departing with his travel mug in hand.

The day dragged on as I navigated school drop-offs and the loud chatter of five schoolgirls heading home. Yet, David lingered in my thoughts.

Back home, I prepared snacks for my daughters while pondering my next steps.

“You have both the time and place, Nancy,” my mother advised when I called for guidance.

“So you really think I should go?” I asked, contemplating the prospect.

Naturally, I wanted to confront David—catch him red-handed—but the thought of my own heartbreak was daunting.

“Absolutely. Your whole marriage hinges on what happens tonight,” she said. “I know it’ll be tough, but you need to know your next course of action.”

“I guess,” I replied hesitantly.

“Don’t you owe it to the girls?” she prodded.

I arranged for a nanny since my mother was too far away to help on such short notice if I wanted to make it to the restaurant.

Clothing choices loomed large as I faced my closet. A part of me wanted to fade into the background, easy for David to overlook as I observed from a distance.

“Stop that, Nancy,” I scolded myself in the mirror. “You’re going to be bold.”

I slipped into a stunning red dress David had gifted me for a past birthday. The fit was perfect, and I recalled fondly his words.

“Red was always your color,” he had said, lifting the dress from its box.

I checked my reflection—a striking, confident image, poised for confrontation. But beneath it all was a well of hurt and betrayal.

Arriving early at the restaurant, I was surrounded by a buzz of anticipation and clinking glasses.

And there she was, the other woman. Dressed in red as instructed, she beamed carefree as she snapped selfies.

Taking a deep breath, I chose a table right next to her, ensuring my back was turned to the entrance. I didn’t want David to see me until the opportune moment.

When he entered, the atmosphere shifted. He approached her with a warmth and intimacy that made my heart race.

Once upon a time, he looked at me like that.

I sipped my wine, seeking calmness amidst the tension.

David took a seat beside her instead of across the table, a move he used with me to create intimacy. He presented her with a large bouquet and a white box.

“Isabelle,” he said, leaning in for a kiss that lingered uncomfortably long. “You look stunning, as always.”

Her laughter was light, matching her playful selfie-taking earlier.

“David, you always know how to make a girl feel special. Seven years already? Can you believe it?”

In that instant, our eyes locked. The warmth in his smile vanished, replaced by dawning fear.

He stood abruptly, muttering an excuse to use the restroom.

“Don’t you dare, David!” I burst out.

He froze, panic washing over his face. Isabelle, now bewildered and flustered, watched the unfolding drama.

Caught between his wife and his clandestine lover, David seemed paralyzed. I could see him grappling with his next move.

Turning to Isabelle, I introduced myself with a steadiness I didn’t feel.

“I’m Nancy,” I said. “David’s wife of nearly eighteen years.”

“What?” Isabelle gasped, her face draining of color. “I had no idea! David told me you were separated but still on good terms because of the kids.”

Isabelle nervously twisted a strand of hair, clearly a victim of David’s deceit alongside me.

David’s expression was one of desperation—was he seeking forgiveness or hoping to vanish into thin air? He opened his mouth but no words emerged. The silence was deafening.

“Separated? How cliché, David.”

Looking at Isabelle, I saw tears well in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I never wanted to be part of something like this.”

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” David murmured.

To whom was he speaking?

Isabelle dabbed at her eyes, visibly shaken.

But seven years? They had been together for years, yet not once did she think to meet my daughters or even me?

Did she not realize the seriousness of their relationship? Or did she think it was purely casual?

None of this made sense. David and I had married young—right out of high school. Despite the usual spats, our bond had always strengthened through adversity.

Until that note surfaced.

I reflected on the arguments we’d had—sure, they were tough, but they always brought us closer. I recalled his late nights and business trips.

One evening lingered in my memory, sitting in bed with ice cream while David packed a suitcase.

“I’m just gone for the weekend,” he assured me.

“Where will you be?” I inquired.

“At a hotel,” he replied. “But I won’t be alone. A colleague is sharing the room with me.”

I nodded, trusting him completely; he had never given me a reason to doubt him.

Now, I sat back and watched as David restrained himself from comforting Isabelle, his pained expression signaling internal conflict.

That was the deepest cut—seeing him care for her, longing to reach out in my presence.

I didn’t believe our marriage was over, but in that moment, my heart shattered completely.

“I’ll start the divorce process,” I declared to David, rising to leave.

“You’ll need to explain this to the girls; I’m not doing it.”

As I exited, the restaurant blurred into insignificance. The night air struck me colder as I made my way to my car. I faced my betrayal but knew I had much to process.

I needed to remain strong for my daughters; I understood that this divorce would devastate them and our family. But David had left me with no choice.

What would you have done?