“Are you sure you want to wear that shirt?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, glancing down.
“Nothing, except you wore it to the last party and the one before that. Maybe switch it up a bit this year?” I suggested with a smile.
He chuckled. “You know me, Mica. I’m not exactly a fashion icon.”
While he was fixing his shirt in the mirror, I absentmindedly picked up a black marker from the dresser. I twirled it in my fingers, my mind wandering to silly thoughts. And then, a mischievous idea struck me.
“Hey, Trav, hold still,” I said, walking up behind him.
“What are you doing?” he laughed, looking at me in the mirror as I pulled up his shirt.
“This,” I said, as I scribbled on his chest in bold letters, “This is my husband. If you touch him, you’ll pay for it. M.”
Travis stared at my handiwork in the mirror and shook his head, amused. “Really, Mica? That’s what you’re going with?”
“What? It’s cute!” I grinned. “Besides, now everyone knows you’re off-limits.”
“Yeah, because that’s what every guy wants — his wife’s handwriting all over him,” he teased, pulling his shirt down.
He planted a tender kiss on my cheek before grabbing his coat. “I’ll be back early, promise. Don’t wait up.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
In Travis’ absence, I decided to make use of the time. Our living room still needed decorating, and I’d been meaning to put up the Christmas tree for days. I blasted some holiday music and began hanging the stockings and stringing up the lights. It felt good: that familiar warmth of Christmas filling the house.
Hours passed, and I had nearly finished decorating the house when I heard the front door creak open. Travis stumbled in, his steps unsteady, and I could smell the alcohol on him from across the room. He wasn’t just tipsy; he was drunk.
“Heyyyy, I’m home,” he slurred, grinning as he leaned against the doorframe for support.
I sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You said you’d be back early.”
“Yeah, well, I lost track of time,” he mumbled.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I said, walking over to him and looping my arm under his to guide him to our room.
Helping him undress was no small feat. He swayed, laughing at nothing, as I struggled to pull his shoes off. Finally, I managed to get him out of his shirt, but as I folded it, I noticed something strange.
There, on his chest, right above where I had written my playful message, was a reply: smudged and faded but unmistakable. “Keep the change.”
At first, I laughed. It seemed like the kind of thing one of his friends would do after a few drinks. But the more I thought about it, the more uneasy I felt. Who had written it? And why?
That night, I lay in bed next to Travis, who was snoring softly, and stared at the ceiling. The words echoed in my mind, refusing to let me sleep. “Keep the change.” It was such a simple phrase, but it felt like a warning, like something was off.
I tried to push the thoughts away, telling myself it was just a joke. Travis had never given me a reason not to trust him. We had a good marriage — solid, built on years of love and mutual respect. He wouldn’t jeopardize that, would he?
But still, doubt crept in, little by little, until it was all I could think about.
The next morning, Travis woke up groggy, his head pounding from the night before. As we sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee in awkward silence, I finally asked him about the message.
“So… do you remember anything from last night?” I asked casually.
He looked up, confused. “Uh, bits and pieces. Why?”
“Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “someone left a reply to my little note on your chest.”
“Yeah, ‘Keep the change.’”
Travis’ brow furrowed in confusion. “What? Who would’ve written that?”
“I don’t know, you tell me,” I said, my voice light but laced with tension. “You’re the one who was there.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Honestly, Micaela, I don’t remember much after we left the office. We went to a bar, did some karaoke, and then… I don’t know. One of the guys probably wrote it. It’s nothing.”
But his explanation didn’t ease the discomfort I felt. If anything, it made it worse.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. For days, the message haunted me. Every time I looked at Travis, I wondered if he was hiding something.
He seemed normal enough, but there was a subtle change in the way he acted — or maybe I was imagining it. Either way, I couldn’t let it go.
That’s when I decided to talk to my mom. I spilled everything over a cup of coffee, even the nagging feeling that had been eating at me since that night. She listened quietly, her face thoughtful, and then she offered a suggestion I wasn’t expecting.
“Why don’t you track his car?” she said, almost too casually.
“What? You mean… spy on him?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Not spy, exactly,” she replied. “Just… check. If there’s nothing to worry about, you’ll know. And if there is…”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. I knew what she meant.
Reluctantly, I agreed. I installed a GPS tracker on his car, feeling both guilty and anxious. For the next week, I watched his movements. Everything seemed normal at first — just work, home, work again. But then, one night, he called me.
“Hey, I have to stay late at the office,” he said. “Just tying up some loose ends before the holidays.”
I didn’t think much of it until I glanced at the tracker. His car wasn’t at the office. It was moving… away from it, toward a part of town we rarely visited.
My stomach knotted. Without thinking, I grabbed my keys and followed him.
My heart raced as I parked a few houses down from where the GPS indicated his car was. It was a beautiful, upscale neighborhood: the kind where the homes looked like they belonged on magazine covers. But what was he doing here?
Travis stepped out of one of the houses, smiling, and next to him… a woman. She was tall, elegant, and reached out to him as he turned to face her. And then she kissed him.
Everything inside me shattered.
I sat there, frozen, unable to move or breathe. It felt like time had slowed down, the world around me fading away. I fumbled for my phone and snapped a few pictures, proof of what I couldn’t believe I was seeing.
I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at the images on my screen, but eventually, I got out of the car and walked toward them.
Travis saw me first. His face turned pale, and the woman let go of his arm, her eyes widening in surprise.
“So,” I said, my voice shaking, “you’re the one who left the message on my husband?”
The woman looked at me for a moment, and then, to my surprise, she smiled sadly. “You deserve better,” she said softly. “Men like him… they’re like spare change. Easy to throw away.”
I felt the tears welling up, but I refused to let them fall. Travis stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no words came out.
That was the moment I knew. It wasn’t just about the kiss or the message. It was about everything that had led up to it — the lies, the distance, the feeling that something wasn’t right. I walked away from them both, my heart broken but my head clear.
When I got back to my car, there was a text from my mom. “I’m here for you, sweetheart. Call me when you’re ready. Also, here’s the number for a good divorce lawyer.”
This Christmas wasn’t what I expected. Instead of the celebration I’d hoped for, I was given the gift of truth — painful, but necessary. Now, I’m facing a new beginning. A new year that’s about rediscovery, healing, and finding happiness on my own terms.
Life is unpredictable, and sometimes, all we can do is pick up the pieces and move forward.
What would you have done differently if you were in my shoes?
