For five years straight, I watched my husband pack his bags and head off on “annual recharge trips.” That’s what he called them. Just a few days alone every summer—“mental reset,” “no distractions,” “just peace,” blah blah blah.
I never complained. Not once. I stayed back, held down the fort, worked double shifts when needed, kept the house running. I figured, hey, if he comes back a better version of himself, maybe it’s worth it.
But last year, something snapped.
I asked if I could join him—just casually—and he straight-up said no.
“You wouldn’t like it,” he told me. “It’s not your kind of thing.”
That line stuck in my chest.
So this year, I did something I’d never done before. I requested a full week off, booked a quiet Airbnb by the coast, and left him a note on the fridge:
Taking some peace and quiet too. Don’t wait up.
He didn’t text me for the first two days. That’s when I knew something was off.
On the third day, I finally logged into the shared Google account he forgot he synced years ago. It had travel confirmations—same places, same dates… but not always solo. Hotel reservations under two names. Dinner spots that required reservations for couples. A few candid photos uploaded by mistake.
My stomach flipped.
I was sitting on a beach with a mimosa in my hand when I made a decision: I wasn’t going to call him. Not yet. I had five more days left on my vacation, and I wasn’t about to let him ruin them too.
But I did call someone else.
Not family. Not a friend.
Someone he definitely wouldn’t expect me to reach out to.
I scrolled through my contacts, heart racing, fingers shaking. Then I found the number.
Savannah.
His ex.
I’d only met her once, years ago, at a mutual friend’s party. She had looked at me like I was made of glass—fragile, temporary. At the time, I thought it was jealousy.
Now I knew better.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over “Call.” But something deep in my gut—something primal and exhausted—pressed forward.
Ring. Ring. Click.
“Hello?” Her voice was cautious.
“Savannah… It’s me. Claire. I think you might want to know that I’m sitting on a beach, drinking alone… while your ex-boyfriend—my husband—is off on his yearly ‘solo’ vacation. And I just found out he wasn’t always solo.”
Dead silence.
Then, a slow inhale. “I was wondering when you’d find out.”
That sentence landed like a slap.
“You knew?”
She sighed. “I didn’t know he was still doing it. But when we were together, he had this same routine. Said he needed ‘space.’ I found out he was taking multiple women on those trips. One in Charleston. One in Seattle. Me, in Denver.”
My mouth went dry. “He did this… with you too?”
“Claire,” she said softly, “he’s not creative. Just careful. Until he’s not.”
I felt the world tilt sideways. Five years. Five vacations. Five betrayals, minimum.
“I’m so sorry,” Savannah added. “I know what it feels like to start questioning every moment, every memory. You don’t have to sit in that alone.”
I looked out at the ocean—wild, crashing, unapologetic. And for the first time in a long time, I realized I didn’t want to just quietly survive anymore.
I wanted truth. Closure. Justice.
“Savannah,” I said slowly, “how do you feel about helping me end his little tradition for good?”
She paused… then laughed.
“Claire, I’ve been waiting for this moment. Tell me where to be.”
One Month Later
He walked into our house like nothing had changed.
Tanned. Relaxed. Whistling.
I was already sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, sipping tea. Calm.
“Hey babe,” he said, tossing his bag by the door. “You wouldn’t believe how peaceful this trip was.”
I smiled.
“No distractions?” I asked. “Total recharge?”
He grinned, walking over to kiss my cheek.
I turned my face.
And that’s when he noticed the envelope on the table.
“What’s this?”
“Oh,” I said lightly, “a few things. Divorce papers. Bank withdrawal records. And a printed timeline of every trip you’ve taken… with someone who wasn’t me.”
His face went pale.
I stood, slid the second chair out.
“You might want to sit down, though. Savannah’s on her way. She brought snacks.”
He blinked. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” I said, folding my arms. “And by the way? This house? Not yours anymore. Turns out, the deed was in my name after all.”
His voice cracked. “Claire, can we just—talk—”
“Oh, we will. In court.”
Just then, a car door shut outside.
Savannah stepped into view through the window, in sunglasses and heels, holding a bottle of wine like she was arriving at a picnic. Because she was.
“For the record,” I added, walking to the door, “I might’ve spent the first half of our marriage thinking you were the smartest man alive. But now? I know better.”
He opened his mouth, but I raised a hand.
“No more talking, Noah. Just pack. Quietly.”
I left him there in the hallway — stunned, shaking, and alone with every lie he’d ever told echoing off the walls he thought he owned.
This year, he can finally have that ‘solo trip.’
For real this time.
