While on a work trip, I checked my baby monitor and saw a strange woman tucking in my toddler, acting like his mother. What I discovered ended my marriage and led to a silent, satisfying revenge. I’m Laura, 34, married to David for three years, together for four. Our son, Owen, 17 months old, filled our days with laughter and sticky fingers. I thought our life—weekend walks, private jokes—was strong. When a short work trip came up, I wasn’t worried. David had cared for Owen before, sending me off with a hug and promises of photos.
At my hotel after a draining day, I opened the baby monitor app to check on Owen. My heart froze—a woman I didn’t know was in his nursery, gently fixing his blanket and kissing his forehead, whispering softly. My hands trembled as I called David. He answered casually, with street sounds behind him. “Who’s with Owen?” I demanded. “What?” he said. “I saw a woman on the monitor!” I shouted. He paused, said, “Damn,” and hung up. My calls went to voicemail. Panicked, I called my brother, Mike, who lives close. “Go to my house,” I pleaded, describing the woman. “I’m on my way,” he said.
Minutes felt endless as I paced. Mike texted: “David’s back with groceries. Checking now.” He called, his voice hard. “She’s not a babysitter. They were fighting. He asked why she was in Owen’s room. She said Owen was crying, and when he questioned the kiss, she said, ‘When you divorce Laura, Owen will be my son too.’” I sank to the floor, crying silently, stuck far from home. I booked a morning flight and arrived at 8 a.m. David was on the couch, looking rough. I checked Owen, sleeping soundly, then faced David. “Who was she?” I asked coldly. He mumbled, “A mistake. I was ending it. She wasn’t supposed to go to Owen.” I glared. “You left our son with her?” He admitted it was short. “We’re done,” I said, turning away.
I filed for divorce, seeking full custody because David’s choices endangered Owen. I allowed visits, not wanting to cut Owen off from his dad, but I took charge. In court, David pleaded for a second chance, but I won custody and set terms. Weeks later, I found her on Instagram—Chloe, a stylist with a shiny feed. I booked a session as “Jane,” arriving casually. Chloe was warm, suggesting outfits. I showed her a screenshot of her with Owen. She froze. “Owen’s okay,” I said, handing her a therapist’s card for delusional behavior. “So am I.” I walked out, free. David calls, claiming he’s changed, but I’m content with Owen and the monitor’s soft light by my bed.
