So I looked carefully.
The next morning, Austin asked why our tax folder was out of place.
For the first time in my marriage, I prepared for the possibility that it was already over. I opened an account he could not touch. I copied every financial document with my name on it. I packed a bag and left it in my trunk.
The next morning, Austin asked why our tax folder was out of place.
I told him I needed an insurance number.
He watched me for one beat too long.
But I already had the screenshots.
That evening, the family tablet was gone from the kitchen counter.
He had hidden it.
But I already had the screenshots.
After that, I moved every financial paper out of the bedroom. Two days later, Kathryn visited and went upstairs anyway. At dinner she was unusually quiet. For once, the woman who always seemed to know too much had found nothing.
That was when I made the binder.
Then I put the binder in the back of my underwear drawer beneath a stack of old camisoles.
On the cover I wrote: Kathryn’s Inspection Record.
Inside were photographs of the disturbed drawers, screenshots of Austin’s instructions, and the records proving what he had hidden. Nothing dramatic. Nothing exaggerated. Just enough to show exactly what the two of them had been doing behind my back.
Then I put the binder in the back of my underwear drawer beneath a stack of old camisoles.
The next Sunday, I made cinnamon rolls.
She went upstairs.
Kathryn arrived cheerful, kissed Austin on the cheek, and criticized my hydrangeas before she had both feet in the house. We ate. Austin talked about work. Kathryn asked whether I had finally learned how to store linen napkins properly.
Then she stood.
"I’m going to wash my hands."
I smiled. "Of course."
She went upstairs.
Three minutes later, Kathryn screamed my name.
I kept buttering my roll.
Austin looked at me. "What?"
"Nothing."
Three minutes later, Kathryn screamed my name.
Austin shot out of his chair. We ran upstairs together.
Kathryn was standing in my bedroom with the binder in both hands. Her face was red with fury.
Austin took the binder from her and opened it.
"How dare you," she said.
I stopped in the doorway.
"No. How dare you."
Austin took the binder from her and opened it. I watched his expression change as he turned the pages. Annoyance. Then shock. Then that tight, private panic people get when they realize denial would be futile.
