Every weekday, like clockwork, my husband, Tom, left our quiet suburban house at 2:15 p.m. to meet the kindergarten bus.
I work full-time, often glued to my laptop in the office, so the Ring camera notifications were my security blanket. Ping. Right on time. Tom’s there. Kid’s safe.
But recently, that ping had revealed that my husband was lying to me.
But recently, that ping had revealed that my husband was lying to me.
I first noticed it a few weeks ago.
I was overseeing training on the VoIP calling platform my company uses for sales calls when the alert popped up on my phone.
It was only 1:03 p.m., way too early for Tom to be leaving for the bus. I didn’t think much about it until it happened again, and again.
Every day that week, Tom left the house early.
Every day that week, Tom left the house early.
I didn’t want to be the paranoid wife, but I felt like I’d been transported back to my childhood, watching Dad come and go at strange hours while Mom ate up all his excuses.
Dad left us for his mistress before I turned 12. And I learned that a healthy dose of suspicion was infinitely better than complete obliviousness.
One day, I came home and stopped dead in the hall. A faint floral scent lingered in the air… I followed it into the kitchen.
I felt like I’d been transported back to my childhood, watching Dad come and go at strange hours while Mom ate up all his excuses.
Tom was rinsing rice at the sink. I hugged him from behind and got a lungful of gardenia-scented perfume.
I wanted to go full Jerry Springer on him right then and there, but I didn’t. I stepped back, told myself to stay calm, and tackled the situation like an adult.
“Hey, I saw the camera alert earlier,” I started, leaning against the kitchen counter while he poured a glass of water. “You left before one to pick up Josh?”
I stepped back, told myself to stay calm, and tackled the situation like an adult.
He didn’t meet my gaze.
“Yeah, I’ve been taking a walk before the bus comes. Trying to move more, you know? Be more active.”
I raised an eyebrow, letting a little playful skepticism color my tone. “At one in the afternoon? You hate the heat, Tom. You complain about humidity if it’s above 70 degrees.”
“It’s not that bad lately, Ruby. Come on, don’t make a big deal out of a quick walk.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of a quick walk.”
That’s when I knew I had to find out what Tom was getting up to when he left the house early.
I quietly reached out to Marcy, our neighbor down the street. She lives right in front of the bus stop and is, let’s just say, invested in the neighborhood gossip.
I asked her to keep an eye out, just a vague, “Let me know if you see Tom on his walks, I’m trying to make sure he’s getting his steps in,” kind of thing.
The next afternoon, I got a text from Marcy that hit me like a wrecking ball.
I got a text from Marcy that hit me like a wrecking ball.
“Hey Ruby, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the only walk Tom is taking goes down the street and into Becca’s place.”
Shock and anger ran through me like a fever. Becca, the divorcée, whose little boy was in the same kindergarten class as our son, and who was rumored to have split from her husband after he caught her cheating on him.
The next day, Marcy sent photos.
“The only walk Tom is taking goes down the street and into Becca’s place.”
In the first one, Tom and Becca were walking out of her house to the bus stop. In the second, they were hugging while our son stood to one side, clearly waiting for him.
That night, my fingers scrolled mechanically through the school contact sheet until they stopped on Becca’s name. There was her number.
I knew exactly how I was going to get the final piece of evidence I needed.
I knew exactly how I was going to get the final piece of evidence I needed.
During my morning commute the next day, I listened to the stupid prank call segment on the radio more attentively than usual. I had to be certain my terrible, brilliant idea would work.
The VoIP calling platform my company uses lets you merge calls and record them. I could join Becca and Tom on a call and hear what they said when they thought they were talking privately.
I had to set the stage first.
I could join Becca and Tom on a call and hear what they said when they thought they were talking privately.
I sent each of them a short, identical text: “Hey, it’s me. I’m going to call you — we need to talk. Someone told her.”
My hands shook as I started the setup. I called Tom from my office line and immediately put him on hold. Then, I dialed Becca.
I clicked the “Merge” button. A small beep confirmed the recording had started.
I muted my microphone and listened as their conversation turned my world upside down.
Their conversation turned my world upside down.
“Did your wife say something to you?” Becca asked in a panicked whisper. “Is she calling the police? Oh God, Tom, I can’t handle this.”
Police? My jaw dropped. This was not the conversation I was expecting.