A couple of years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s lake house—a place that had always been my quiet refuge growing up. It’s a four-hour drive, so I rarely go, but the house holds deep meaning for me.
Then, out of nowhere, her sweet elderly neighbor called me.
“There’s some strange man poking around your property.”
Worried it might be a break-in, I had hidden cameras installed for peace of mind.
Two weeks later, while my husband, Luke, claimed to be out of town on a business trip, I got a motion alert from the lake house.
It was him.
With another woman.
In my lake house.
They acted like it was their romantic retreat—he called her “babe,” she lit one of my candles, and they cozied up with wine on my grandmother’s old couch like they owned the place.
I didn’t cry. I stayed calm. And started planning.
When Luke got back, pretending to be drained from a “conference,” I played along like nothing was wrong.
I even suggested we take a weekend away together—just us, off-grid, at the lake house. No phones, no distractions. Total reset.
He agreed, clueless. “We haven’t been there in forever,” he said.
The drive was quiet. I let him play DJ and carry on small talk, all while mentally rehearsing what I might say—or whether I’d say anything at all.
We arrived just as the sun dipped below the trees, the lake calm and golden. Luke stepped out of the car, stretched like he belonged there—as if he hadn’t defiled the memories I held sacred in that place.
Inside, everything looked exactly how I’d left it… except for one detail.
On the kitchen counter was a neat stack of printed photos—snapshots taken from the hidden cameras.
One showed him brushing her hair on the porch. Another, her wearing my grandmother’s sweater. And one of them kissing in front of the fireplace.
He froze.
His eyes locked onto the photos. He didn’t dare touch them.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice shaky.
I leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “Looks like a couple of very productive business meetings, don’t you think?”
He blinked at me like I was speaking a language he didn’t understand.
“You followed me?” he asked.
I laughed. “You trespassed into my family’s home. Brought your coworker here. Had wine. Slept in my grandma’s bed. And you think I’m the one out of line?”
He started fumbling for excuses. “It wasn’t serious. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just… I didn’t think you cared about this place anymore. You never come here.”
That one hit hard.
“So you figured it was abandoned? Free real estate for your little affair?”