I swapped my cheating husband’s lube for glue… and the firefighters had to pull them apart

By this point, I was almost certain he was cheating on me. I checked his messages, but there were only work chats, cold and dry like a desert landscape. His inbox was empty, except for that one strange email.

I checked the sent and draft folders. Nothing. Everything was too clean, too perfect, suspiciously so, as if he had erased every trace of his deception.

«A master of lies,» I thought bitterly. My rage was now a cold, hard stone in my chest, and a new, more dangerous emotion began to stir within me: a desire for truth, a need to expose the lie, no matter the cost.

The next morning, just as the sun rose and the soft light filtered through the window curtains, I was already awake, a ghost in my own house. The image of the lubricant, the restaurant receipt, and that email wouldn’t stop swirling in my head, a venomous carousel of doubt. I stood in the kitchen, my hands busy, but my mind a frantic whirlwind. I made a simple breakfast: two fried eggs, some toast, and a cup of the strong black coffee Julian liked.

I had barely slept all night. Julian came down, looking tired, his hair a mess, and his eyes still groggy. He sat at the table, grabbed his coffee cup, took a sip, and set it down half full.

— I have an important meeting today, — he said in a husky voice, a rehearsed line he’d used countless times before without looking me in the eye. — I’m sure I’ll be home late.

He was so good at this, I thought. The easy lies, the casual tone—it made my blood run cold. I nodded with a strained smile, though all I wanted to do was scream: «Where is the meeting? With whom? In San Antonio again?» But I held back, my rage a silent fire, and simply replied:

— All right, be careful.

He got up, gave me a light pat on the shoulder—a gesture that felt more like an afterthought than a sign of affection—and left.

The door closed, leaving the kitchen in silence, and me with a suspicion that was growing into a monstrous certainty. I cleared the table and washed the dishes one by one, the rhythm of the task a small anchor in the storm of my emotions. I couldn’t just sit there inventing theories.

I needed the truth, hard evidence. I picked up my phone and looked for the number for Mrs. Miller, a friend from years ago who had helped me so much when I first opened the bakery. She had once told me about a good private investigator who specialized in infidelity cases.

— Juliet, if you ever need it, I can give you Thomas’s number, — she had said. — He’s very discreet and reliable.

I never thought I would need to call him, but now I had no other choice. I dialed her number, my voice trembling, each ring a drumbeat of my mounting anxiety.

— Hello, Mrs. Miller? Can you help me get in touch with Thomas? I need him.

She was silent for a few seconds, a pause that spoke volumes before answering.

— Juliet, what’s going on? Did Julian do something?

I sighed, not wanting to get into the details over the phone, my pride bruised and raw.

— I just need to know the truth. Can you help me?

Mrs. Miller, a woman of few words but profound intuition, agreed immediately, and just an hour later I received a message from Thomas asking me to meet him at noon at a small cafe downtown.

«Mrs. Roberts, please don’t worry, I will help you,» he wrote.

The message was short, but it was enough to give me a little relief, a lifeline in a sea of deceit. At noon I went to the cafe, a tiny place with worn wooden tables and the aroma of roasted coffee filling the air—a scent that usually comforted me, but now felt strangely foreign.

I chose a secluded corner where no one would notice me, a shadow in a room full of light. Thomas walked in, a middle-aged man, short and stocky, with a simple light blue shirt and philosophical eyes that seemed to read everything, to see through the surface of things. I handed him a flash drive with the photos I had taken the night before: the strange email, the restaurant receipt, the lubricant tube, and some napkins.

— This is all I have, — I said, my voice shaky. — I’m not sure, but I think my husband is cheating on me.

The words tasted like ash.

Thomas nodded, reviewing each image on his phone, his face impassive, a professional facade hiding whatever thoughts he had. He carefully made notes in a small notebook.

— Mrs. Roberts, I understand. I’ll start following Mr. Roberts this afternoon. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know as soon as possible.

I looked at him, trying to hold back the tears that were burning my eyes.

— Thank you, — I said softly. — I just want to know the truth, whatever it may be.

Thomas nodded with a compassionate look, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

— I’ll do my best. Go home and don’t do anything to arouse suspicion.

I left the cafe and walked through the crowd, but I felt a loneliness I had never experienced before. 40 years of marriage, a lifetime built on a foundation of trust that was now crumbling beneath my feet. I had put all my trust in Julian. I always believed he was a family man, who would be with me through any difficulty.

He was my rock, my anchor. And now here I was, hiring a stranger to follow my own husband. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow.

I felt like I was in a bad movie, a character in a drama I never auditioned for. That night, as I sat in the bakery, the familiar scent of yeast and flour—a constant, soothing presence—surrounding me, I went over delivery invoices. My phone vibrated, a message from Mr. Thomas.

I opened it, my heart pounding a mile a minute, the blood roaring in my ears. It was a photo of Julian, in the light blue shirt he often wore, entering a fancy restaurant, holding hands with a woman. I zoomed in on the image, and my heart stopped.

It was Allison, my daughter-in-law.

She was wearing a tight black dress, with heavy makeup, intense red lipstick, and her hair down. They didn’t look like father-in-law and daughter-in-law, but like a couple on a date, their bodies turned toward each other, a shared secret between them.

I sank into my chair, my hand trembling as I held the phone. Allison, how was this possible? At family gatherings, she and Julian always acted distant, barely speaking to each other. I now realized it was a masterful act, a performance for my benefit.

Mr. Thomas sent more photos. In one, they were sitting in a secluded corner, the table decorated with candles and flowers. Allison was leaning toward him, smiling, and Julian was toasting her glass with an oddly tender gaze.

I saw the photo and felt a crushing pain in my chest. In forty years, I had never seen him look at me like that, not even when we were young, when I was that girl from San Diego with long hair and a radiant smile. He looked at me that way, a look of genuine adoration, of a love I thought was mine.

Now it was hers.

In the middle of the night, a video arrived from Mr. Thomas. The clock on the wall read two o’clock a.m. I put on my headphones, a desperate attempt to keep the secret contained, and pressed play.

My hands so shaky, I almost dropped the phone. In the video, Allison leaned close to Julian’s ear, whispering something that made him laugh loudly, a sound that was a stranger to me. Her voice sounded sweet, her eyes sparkling under the restaurant lights.

Then they got up and left, and Julian, ever the gentleman, opened the car door for her as if she were a lady and he were her lover. I replayed the video again and again, a self-inflicted torture. Each time felt like another stab to the heart.

Allison, my daughter-in-law, whom I had treated like my own daughter, whom I had taught how to make our family’s traditional flan, and Julian, the man I had given my whole life to, with whom I had built a family. What were they doing behind my back? Behind Daniel’s back? The questions were a tidal wave, threatening to drown me.

I saved all the photos and the video to a flash drive, making a note of every detail, date, time, place, even the name of the restaurant. My hands worked on autopilot, but my mind was in chaos. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe Julian and Allison were capable of something so low, so cruel.

But the evidence was right in front of me, undeniable, a mountain of proof. I stayed in the bakery among trays of sweet pastries that smelled delicious, but I felt like my world was falling apart. I remembered the early days of the business, when Julian would help me carry sacks of flour, when we would laugh together in that little kitchen, our dreams as big as the sky.

Now it all seemed like a distant memory, a beautiful lie I had lived for too long.

The next morning I was in the small kitchen, holding a list of orders for a large hotel downtown. The smell of flour and vanilla, which always brought me peace, felt empty that day, a hollow comfort.

As soon as I finished signing the delivery invoice, my phone vibrated in my apron pocket. I wiped my hands, and my heart sank when I saw it was a message from the detective. Just a short sentence.

«Mrs. Roberts, I’m sending you more evidence.»

I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm, but my hands trembled as I opened the message. A series of photos appeared on the screen.

The first showed Julian, in his usual gray shirt, leaving a law office near the main plaza. By his side was Allison, in a beige office dress, her hair in a high ponytail, and huge dark sunglasses that almost covered her face, a pathetic attempt at anonymity. They were walking very close together, not like in-laws, but like a couple, their bodies a testament to their forbidden bond.

In the next photo, they were standing in front of a four-star hotel with gleaming glass doors and a gold sign. I zoomed in, desperately looking for some sign to deny what I was seeing, but there was nothing. They looked too natural, too comfortable together, a part of a world I was not a part of.

Then came a short video from Mr. Thomas. I pressed play, and my heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst, a frantic drum against my ribs. The shot was from a distance, but it was clear enough to see Julian and Allison on the third floor balcony of the hotel.

His arm was around her waist, and she was resting her head on his shoulder, her long hair moving softly in the wind. And then, like a stab, I saw them share a quick kiss, without trying to hide. It was a brief kiss, but it was enough to burn away the last spark of hope I had left.

I replayed the video frame by frame, each image digging deeper into my soul, a slow, agonizing descent into hell. The room curtain opened slightly, and Allison came out, running to hug Julian, her face lit up with happiness, as if she were a young girl in love. I slumped into the chair, clutching the edge of the table to keep from falling apart.

Mr. Thomas wrote: «They also rented the room for the afternoon. It looks like they’re staying the night. I’ll keep an eye on them.»

I read the message over and over, my throat tight, as if I were being strangled. Just a few hours earlier, Julian had written to me:

«Juliet, I won’t be home tonight. I have to meet a potential partner from out of town. Get some rest.»

The tone was sweet and caring, just as it had been for years. But now I knew it was all a lie, a well-constructed lie.

A potential partner from out of town. He wasn’t out of town. He was here, in a four-star hotel, with our own daughter-in-law.

I opened my portable hard drive and carefully saved every photo and every video. Each time I hit save, I looked at the image, as if to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. In the video, Julian’s gaze toward Allison was so tender.

The way he caressed her hair reminded me of the way he used to do it with me, more than thirty years ago. We were young, and I believed our love would last forever, a promise whispered under a starry San Diego sky. Now, seeing this, all I saw was lies and blatant betrayal.

I remembered family gatherings, everyone sitting around the table, a tableau of our perfect family. Allison always sat far away from Julian. Sometimes she even looked at him with disgust.

Daniel would joke:

— Mom, I think Allison can’t stand Dad. She avoids him like the plague.

I believed it, too. I thought they just didn’t get along, that she was just trying to fit into the family. But now I understood it had all been a farce, a carefully choreographed dance of deception. They acted too well in front of me, in front of Daniel, in front of the whole neighborhood.

I felt like a fool, a blind wife, betrayed by two traitors right in front of my eyes. People were going about their lives unaware of what was happening on that hotel balcony. But Mr. Thomas had captured the perfect moment, like a silent hunter, a snapshot of my reality.

I replied to him: «Thank you. Please keep watching. I need to know everything.»

He answered briefly: «I will. Stay calm.»

That night I returned to the house that had been my home with Julian. It felt foreign now, a place of ghosts and lies. I opened the dresser drawer and took out a thick envelope, my hands moving with a grim determination. I printed all the evidence—photos of Julian and Allison leaving the lawyer’s office, photos of them entering the hotel, photos of them on the balcony, and every frame of the video.

I carefully arranged them, sealed the envelope, and hid it at the bottom of the drawer under old family photos. I looked at a photo of the four of us—Julian, Allison, Daniel and me—at Daniel’s birthday party a few years ago. Allison was smiling, hugging Daniel tightly, while Julian stood beside me with his arm on my shoulder, looking proud.

Now, looking at it, all I wanted was to rip it to pieces, to tear the image of their smiling faces from my life.

The next morning, just before dawn, I heard the front door open slowly. Julian staggered in, smelling of alcohol.

— The partner was too difficult, Juliet, — he complained in a raspy voice, his eyes red as if he’d been up all night. — I had to drink a lot. I’m dead tired.

I was in the kitchen with a glass of water in my hand, watching him perform while feeling like he was rubbing salt in a wound.

— Rest, — I replied calmly, as always, using the practiced voice of a wife. — You have to go to work tomorrow.

He nodded, gave me a pat on the shoulder as if nothing had happened, and dragged himself to the bedroom. Minutes later, he was snoring peacefully, as if he’d never cheated on me, as if he’d never gone to a hotel with our own daughter-in-law.