I thought hiring a cleaning lady would bring peace to our home, not suspicion. At first, she seemed perfect, polite, reliable, almost too good to be true. But when I noticed the way she looked at my husband, I realized I needed proof, and what I found on camera changed everything.
I was never the impulsive type. Every decision I made was careful and logical. That’s how I built my life, climbing out of poverty, building a career, and supporting my mom.
Control had always been my strength. Until I met Michael. With him, everything changed.
There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. We met, fell in love fast, and five months later, he proposed. I said yes without thinking twice.
We married that same month in a small ceremony with only close friends and my mom. Everyone was shocked, but I called it love, the kind that silences reason. At first, marriage felt like a dream.
But soon, cracks appeared. Michael started insisting I handle all the housework. I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t.
He’d point to dishes in the sink or dust on a shelf and sigh like it offended him. I tried to explain that I worked as much as he did. I wasn’t lazy; I’d cleaned houses in high school to help Mom.
I didn’t mind chores, but with work and exhaustion, I couldn’t do it all. Still, each time I saw disappointment in his eyes, I felt like I’d failed some invisible test of being a good wife. One night, while he sat on the couch scrolling through his phone, I decided to suggest something that might fix everything.
“Michael,” I said carefully, “what if we hire a cleaning lady? Just someone to help a few times a week. It’ll make things easier for both of us.”
He frowned.
“I don’t like the idea of a stranger walking around the house,” he said. “I get that,” I replied softly, “but think about it. I won’t have to spend hours cleaning, and we won’t keep arguing about the mess.
I want our house to feel like a home.”
“You keep forgetting this is still your house, not ours. It’s under your name.”
His words stung, but I forced a smile. “I’ll handle the papers, Michael.
We’ll fix that. But right now, can we just talk about the cleaning lady?”
He went quiet for a few seconds, then sighed. “Fine.
I’ll ask around at work. Maybe someone knows a reliable person.”
The next evening, when we came home from work, he told me his colleague had recommended someone trustworthy. “She’s been cleaning their house for years,” he said.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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