12/11/2025
I'm 34F, on maternity leave, taking care of infant twins. Derek, my husband (36M), came home from a supposed three-day "work trip" completely wiped out. "I barely slept," he said, setting down his suitcase. "That conference DESTROYED me."
He started to develop a fever, itching, and spots.
"Derek⦠that looks like CHICKENPOX," I observed.
He dismissed it: "No way. It's stress. My immune system is shot."
I switched to practical modeācalamine on blisters, cool cloths, soup, fresh sheets. Derek kept making excuses: "I was polishing slides all night⦠Clients were brutalā¦" I went along, because with twins to care for, I didnāt want to face another possibility.
We postponed a family dinner. Later, my stepdad texted: "Kelsey's sick. Chickenpox. From her girls' trip." Attached was a photo.
My stomach didnāt sinkāit ceased to exist.
Kelsey, my stepsister, looked almost identical to Derekāsame rash, same weekend.
That night, Derek slept off Benadryl. I reached for his phone and opened the Photos app. A folder marked Hidden appeared.
There were hotel mirror selfies, spa robes, champagne, Derek smiling.
Kelsey was there too, robed, her hand resting on his chest.
In another, Derek was kissing her neck.
I didnāt react. I calculated.
I threw the "rescheduled" dinnerāroast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, pumpkin pieāeverything normal, warm, and AMERICAN. Kelsey arrived with carefully concealed fading scabs, and Derek couldnāt meet her gaze. My mom kept glancing between them, unsure.
With the dinner finished, I raised my water glass.
"I want to give a toast," I said.
Derek grew tense.
Looking at him, I smiled.
"My dear husband Derekā¦" I said, clearing my throat. ā¬ļø