Julian and I had been married for two years, and I was currently on maternity leave with our newborn daughter, Maya.

Julian rarely helped with the baby, spending nearly all his time at work. His “late meetings” had become an almost nightly routine. One afternoon, I called his cell to ask if he would be home in time for dinner.

“Probably not,” he snapped into the receiver. “Can you stop checking up on me? I’m working.”

I swallowed the hurt in my throat. “Okay. Love you.”

He didn’t answer.

I laid my phone on the counter beside Maya’s bottle, but as I looked down, I noticed the call timer was still running. Julian had forgotten to press end.

I reached down to hang up, but froze when I heard a woman’s soft laugh through the speaker.

Then my husband spoke: “She’s driving me insane. Texting pictures of the baby, asking when I’ll be home… I just want her to leave me alone.”

My fingers went numb. The woman murmured something in response, and Julian laughed.

“Of course I hate her. I barely touch her anymore. Just wait. I’ll divorce her, and then I’ll marry you.”

A distinct, wet kiss sounded clearly through the speaker.

I stood paralyzed in the quiet kitchen. With a shaking hand, I quietly ended the call.

That evening, Julian arrived home carrying cheap grocery-store flowers and kissed my forehead. “Missed my girls,” he smiled warmly, acting as if he hadn’t torn my entire life apart just hours earlier.

I looked at him and smiled back. “We missed you too.”

For six days, I said nothing. I watched him take his phone into the bathroom, change his passcode, and spray cologne before every single “late shift.”

Meanwhile, I quietly prepared a special surprise.

On Sunday evening, I hosted a family dinner at our house, inviting both his parents and mine under the pretense of celebrating our second wedding anniversary. I cooked a full roast chicken dinner with all the sides.

When the plates were cleared, I stood up at the head of the table and tapped my water glass with a spoon.

“I want to give a toast,” I announced.

Twelve pairs of eyes turned toward me. Julian sat rigid, his fork hovering mid-air over his dessert pie.

“Julian,” I began, my voice clear and steady as a bell, “you have spent the last six months telling everyone how hard you’re working for this family…”