Jack never took sick days—not for the flu, not even when his mother died. So when he stayed home one Tuesday, pale and coughing, I knew something was off. He said he felt awful and shuffled back to bed as I wrangled our kids through the morning routine.

Then I opened the front door—and froze. On our porch stood a life-sized white statue of Jack, identical down to his scar and nose. The kids stared. Behind us, Jack appeared, saw the statue, and went pale.

Without a word, he dragged it inside like a corpse. “What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, haunted.

He begged me to take the kids. As we left, my son handed me a note found under the statue. It read:

Jack,
I’m returning the statue I made while believing you loved me.
Finding out you’ve been married nearly ten years destroyed me.
You owe me $10,000—or your wife sees every message.
This is your only warning.
—Sally

I didn’t speak. I smiled at the kids and drove. Later, in a parking lot, I sobbed, then called the first divorce attorney I found.

By noon, I was in her office. That night, I found the proof—emails, lies, confessions. I contacted Sally. She confirmed the affair and agreed to testify.

In court, I got full custody, the house, and restitution. Jack didn’t look at me once.

“You never meant to hurt me,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “You just never meant to get caught.”