The morning my husband Jack called in sick — something he never did — I didn’t expect to find a life-sized statue of him on our porch. I opened the door and froze; there it was, an exact clay replica of him, right down to the scar on his knee. Jack went pale, dragged it inside without a word, and refused to explain. But the truth wasn’t far — it came in the form of a note tucked underneath.
Jack had never missed work, not even through sickness or grief. So when he said, “I feel terrible,” and stayed home, I believed him. As I got the kids ready, he sat at the table, pale and distant. Then my son found a crumpled note beneath the statue — and I read it in the car, heart pounding.
“Jack, I’m returning the statue I made while believing you loved me. Finding out you’ve been married for ten years destroyed me. You owe me $10,000… or your wife sees every message. This is your only warning. —Sally.” I forced a smile for the kids, dropped them off, and drove straight to a divorce lawyer.
That night, while Jack snored peacefully, I checked his open laptop — and found everything: emails, love notes, apologies, all to Sally. I saved the proof and emailed her. She was devastated. He had claimed he was divorced. She agreed to testify. A month later, she did — in court, with evidence. I got the house, full custody, and Jack was ordered to pay her $10,000. As he tried to apologize outside, I simply said, “You didn’t mean to hurt me. You meant for me never to find out.”
