Jenna: “The other night was amazing. I can’t wait to see you again.”
Jenna was my friend.
I opened the messages. There it was, everything.
Him: “Caring for a disabled person is exhausting. You’d better make it interesting later.”
Her: “Poor you.”
“At least she’s the one paying for our dates.”
Him: “That’s true. She finally paid for something fun.”
Photos. Restaurants. His car. Her kissing him on the cheek.
I was paying him to take care of me while he used that money to cheat on me with my friend.
I put the phone back in its place.
When he came out, smiling, he asked, “Did you sleep well?” I replied, “Yes. Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Of course. I’m doing my best.”
It was at that moment that something inside me hardened.
That afternoon, I called my sister.
She came. “What’s going on?” she asked.
I told him everything.
“I’m going to bury it in the garden,” she said.
“Tempting,” I replied. “But I had something more legal in mind.”
I told him I wanted to leave.
She accepted instantly.
Then she froze.
“Wait,” she said. “Oh my God. I think I’ve accidentally found proof that he’s cheating on me.”
She showed me photos from a street festival—him and Jenna, clearly together. We printed everything out. I saved the messages. I found a lawyer.
Meanwhile, I continued to play my part.
I paid him every Friday.
I pretended to be grateful.
