I felt like I was in a bad dream I couldn’t wake up from.
“Dylan,” I called, my voice shaky.
He looked up from the pool, water dripping off his hair. “Yeah?”
I swallowed hard, pointing vaguely toward him, trying to keep my voice steady. “That mark on your back… how long have you had it?”
Dylan blinked, confused.
“Huh? Oh, the birthmark? My mom says I’ve had it since I was a baby.
Why?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I tried to smile, to act normal, but my insides were churning. “No reason.
Just… curious.”
He shrugged and went back to splashing around in the pool, completely unaware of the panic clawing at me. The same birthmark. My husband’s voice echoed in my head from years ago, joking about how rare it was, how it looked like some kind of blotched star.
Now I was staring at it on another person—on Dylan.
I turned away quickly, not wanting Dylan to see the fear, the confusion, the anger bubbling up. I needed answers, but where could I even start?
That evening, I paced the living room, chewing on my nails, unable to sit still. My husband was in the kitchen, oblivious to the chaos inside me.
“Taylor, everything okay?” he called out.
“You’ve been pacing for an hour.”
I jumped at his voice, trying to act casual. “Uh, yeah… just… thinking about some stuff.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it. My heart pounded.
I couldn’t ask him, not yet. Not without proof.
Later, as he got ready for bed, I watched him like a hawk. When he went into the bathroom to shower, I moved quickly, snatching his comb from the nightstand.
My fingers trembled as I pulled a few strands of his hair free. I stuffed them into a plastic bag and shoved them into my purse just as he walked back into the room.
“You coming to bed?” he asked, running a towel through his hair.
“Yeah, in a minute,” I muttered, my mind racing.
Luckily, the next morning, Dylan asked to swim in my pool again, and while at it, I grabbed a few of his hairs from his towel while he was distracted with his swim. Guilt clawed at me, but I had to know.
Days later, as I sat at the kitchen table, the DNA results in my shaking hands, I could barely breathe.
I opened the envelope, my heart pounding.
And there it was. 99.9% match.
I dropped the paper, staring blankly at the floor.
The betrayal hit me like a ton of bricks, but I wasn’t about to crumble. I had spent years unknowingly living next to the woman my husband cheated on me with, watching their son grow up right in front of me, and I had no idea.
My life, my marriage—it was all a lie. But I wasn’t going to fall apart. No, I had something much more satisfying in mind.
I wanted him to pay.
Not just with an argument or a fight. No, I wanted him to feel the same shock, the same devastation, that I had felt when I opened that envelope.
The following weekend, I decided to throw a “neighborhood BBQ.” I invited Lisa and my husband. Neither knew the other was coming.
The plan was simple. I would play the perfect, unsuspecting wife, all smiles and warmth, right up until the moment I unleashed the truth.
Saturday arrived, and I greeted Lisa at the door with a friendly smile, acting like everything was just peachy. My husband arrived shortly after, none the wiser.
He kissed my cheek, oblivious to what I had in store for him. I smiled back, feeling the cold satisfaction bubbling inside me.
The three of us sat at the table in the backyard. I served the food, my heart racing but my hands steady.
The air was thick with tension, but neither of them seemed to notice. Lisa made small talk about Dylan, and my husband chimed in with his usual charm, but I wasn’t listening. I was waiting.
I poured myself a glass of wine, took a sip, and set it down with a calm that I didn’t really feel.
Then, I casually dropped the bomb.
“So, I got the results back from a DNA test recently,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Something interesting came up.”
Silence. The air seemed to freeze.
I watched the color drain from my husband’s face. He knew. Oh, he knew.
Lisa’s fork clattered onto her plate, her wide eyes darting between me and my husband.
“W-What are you talking about?” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
I gave her a cold smile. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Lisa.”
My husband’s hand tightened around his drink, but he said nothing, his face pale as a ghost. He knew there was no talking his way out of this.
I stood up slowly, my heart beating fast but my voice steady as steel.
“Pack your things,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “And get out. I’m keeping the house.
And don’t even think about fighting me on it—I’ve already spoken to a lawyer.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He looked at me, then at Lisa, the panic in his eyes growing by the second.
I wasn’t finished. “Oh, and just so you know,” I added, my voice laced with satisfaction, “I recorded this entire conversation.
Not just for myself, but to show the world who you really are.”
His face went from white to red, but before he could say anything, I turned my back on him and walked into the house.
Within a week, he was gone—no house, no family, no reputation. Lisa? She moved away soon after, ashamed and humiliated.
Dylan? I felt for him. He was just an innocent kid caught in the crossfire of his parents’ betrayal.
I couldn’t punish him for their sins. So, I set up a trust fund for him. One that his father wouldn’t ever touch.
In the end, it wasn’t just karma that got him.
It was me.
And as I watched him drive away for the last time, I didn’t feel sadness. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt peace.
The last thing he ever said to me?
“Taylor… how could you?”
I smiled.
“How could I? You tell me.”
