The Letter from the Mistress

I was at work, sorting through my school mail like any other Monday.

The classroom was quiet as I thumbed through the usual mix of memos, supply catalogs, and parent notes. Nothing unusual—until I spotted a plain white envelope with my name written in unfamiliar handwriting.
Below it were five words that made my stomach drop:

“From your husband’s mistress.”

I froze. My fingers went cold. Surely, this was some cruel mistake.
I tucked the envelope into my purse, pretending nothing had happened, and waited until lunch. Ten minutes later, locked inside a gas station restroom, I tore it open.

“You don’t know me personally, but I know plenty about you. I’ve been seeing your husband, Mark, for the past eight months. I believe you deserve to know the truth.”

My vision blurred. Eight months. Eight months of lies.

What made it worse? The letter was signed by Mrs. Parker — the mother of one of my students. I’d always admired how poised she seemed as a single mom. And now she was supposedly sleeping with my husband?

The rest of the letter dripped with venom.
Details of dates, things Mark had “told her” about our marriage… but then came the twist:

“If you want to keep this quiet, you’ll have to pay $5,000 in cash. Do this, and no one ever has to know your shame.”

That was nearly our entire savings.

I sat in my car outside, staring blankly at the steering wheel, feeling like my life had just imploded in the middle of a workday.

When I got home, Mark was in the kitchen making dinner, humming like always. The sight of him made my stomach churn. Was this the face of a man living two lives?

He smiled. “Hey, babe. You okay?”

I almost confronted him—but something stopped me. Instead, I said, “Just a long day. Parent stuff.”

That night, I didn’t sleep a wink.

By morning, I’d made my choice. I withdrew the money and followed the drop-off instructions. It felt humiliating, but I couldn’t risk the gossip, the school board, the whispers. I left the cash where the letter said and drove home hollow.

But the next day, unease clawed at me. Something didn’t add up. Mrs. Parker didn’t strike me as the manipulative type, and her supposed “voice” in the letter felt… off.

After school, I went back to the drop-off spot — a dumpster behind a strip mall. Across the street was a coffee shop with a security camera pointed right at it. I walked in, shaky but determined, and begged the manager to let me see last night’s footage.

The video was grainy, but when the figure appeared, I recognized him instantly.
The walk, the shoulders, the jacket — everything.

Mark.
My husband was the one picking up the envelope.

The floor fell out from under me.

I drove straight to Mrs. Parker’s house. She opened the door, surprised and sweaty from a workout.

“Mrs. Walsh? Is everything okay?”

“Are you having an affair with my husband?” I blurted.

Her eyes widened. “What? No! I’ve met him once at the fundraiser—why would you even—”

I showed her the letter. She read it, horrified. “This isn’t my handwriting. I’d never write something like this.”

That’s when I knew. It wasn’t her. It was him.

When I got home, Mark was setting the table, wine glasses in hand, like nothing had happened.

“I know you took the money,” I said quietly.

He froze. “What are you talking about?”

I called the police right there in front of him. “I’d like to report a case of fraud and extortion,” I said into the phone while he stared, pale and trembling.

When the officers came, Mark finally cracked.
He confessed everything — the letter, the fake mistress, the cash. He’d been drowning in gambling debt and couldn’t find another way out. He thought fear would make me act fast. He was right.

He’d counted on my love, my trust, my shame — and weaponized them all against me.

I filed for divorce that week.

Looking back, I used to think infidelity was the worst kind of betrayal.
Now I know worse: when someone turns your faith in them into ammunition.

He didn’t just cheat, he manipulated my reality — and that’s something no apology can ever undo.