The morning my husband stayed home sick (for the first time ever) I didn’t predict to find a life-sized statue of him on our porch. He turned white, dragged it inside, and refused to explain. But when I read the note, everything I thought I knew fractured.
Jack never takes sick days — not when he had the flu last winter, not when he sliced his thumb cutting bagels, not even when his mother passed away.
So I did a double-take when he said he prepared to take a sick day that Tuesday morning.
“I feel terrible,” he said.
“You don’t look good either,” I said.
“Take some Tylenol and get back into bed. There’s soup in the pantry if you want some later.”
He nodded, and I dove back into the morning hustle of getting three kids ready for school.
“Emma!” I hollered. “We leave in 15 minutes!”
I prepared lunches and hunted down Emma’s favorite hair tie while mentally rehearsing my notes for my work meeting at 9:30.
“Promise me you’ll call the doctor if you aren’t feeling better by midday, okay?” I said.
When I opened the door, the world changed.
There, on our front porch, stood Jack.
Except it wasn’t Jack — it was a life-sized clay statue of him with a smooth, white surface.
Ellie watch it. “Is that… Dad?”
It was like our porch was the scene for a pop-up art installation… for my husband.
Behind me, Emma’s phone clanked to the floor. “What the he—”
“Language,” I said. “Jack! Get out here!”
“It looks exactly like him.”
I grabbed his wrist. “Don’t touch it.”
“What is this?” I demanded. “Who made this? Why is it here?”
“Jack!” I followed him into the living room. “What is going on? Who made that? Why is it here?”
“It’s nothing. I’ll suffer from it. Just take the kids to school.”
“Nothing? That’s a life-sized statue of you on our porch, and it’s nothing?”
“Please,” he said, voice breaking. “Just go.”
I stepped closer, watching his face. In ten years of marriage, I’d never seen him look so afraid.
I hesitated, then shouted. “Fine. But when I get back—”
“I’ll explain everything,” he promised. “Just go.”
His hand shook as he gave me a crumpled piece of paper. I unfolded it slowly
Jack,
I’m returning the statue I made while believing you loved me. Finding out you’ve been married for nearly ten years destroyed me. You owe me $10,000… or your wife sees every message. This is your only warning.
Without love, Sally
And suddenly, having a life-sized statue of my husband appear on the porch was the least of my worries.
“Did you look at this?” I asked Noah.
“It’s rude to read letters or notes for other people.”
“That’s right.” I said.
“Now, let’s get you guys to school!”
I dropped them off, one by one, and kissed each of them goodbye.
Sally. The statue. The note… I deleted it from my pocket and read it again. The words hadn’t magically transformed.
Jack had been having an aff:air.
“I need to see someone today,” I told the receptionist. “It’s urgent.”
Two hours later, I sat across from Patricia, sharing everything.
She leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers, and said, “This note suggests an aff:air, but unless we can find Sally or undeniable proof, he can claim it’s fake.”
“That’s not good enough,” I said.
“I understand your frustration, but we need concrete evidence. Text messages, emails — something that proves the affair.”
I nodded, already planning. “I’ll find it.”
“Don’t do anything illegal,” she concerned. “No hacking accounts or—”
“I won’t break any laws,” I assured her. “But I will look for the truth.”
By evening, I had a plan.
I’d spent most of my day working half-heartedly while strategizing how to get proof of Jack’s affair, searching social media for any artist called Sally who might be related to Jack, and reading every Reddit thread I could find about how to collect evidence of a spouse’s affair.
But when I walked into the kitchen, I found it had all been for nothing.
Jack had passed out at the kitchen table with his laptop open in front of him.
I walked over and peeked at the laptop screen.
His email was open, and there was all the proof I needed.
He connected to Sally the minute we left that morning. There was a long chain of emails, all of them saying more or less the same thing.
Jack had pleaded: Please don’t blackmail me. I’ll pay for the sculpture, I promise! Just don’t tell my wife about us.
In another email: I still love you. I can’t leave my wife — yet. Not until the kids are older. But I can’t live without you, either. Please, don’t do this to us. We have something amazing, Sally. We just need to keep it secret until I’m free… please, stay with me.
The next morning, I waited until Jack left for work and the kids were at school. Then I wrote to the woman who sculpted a statue of my husband.
“My name is Lauren. I believe you know my husband, Jack. I found your statue yesterday and your note. I have some questions, if you’re willing to talk.”
I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he was married until last week. He told me he was divorced.
“How long were you together?” I asked.
Almost a year. We met at a gallery opening. I’m a sculptor.
“Do you still love him?” I typed.
Sally’s reply was swift: No. I’ll never forgive him for lying to me about being single.
“Would you testify in court?”
Her answer: Yes.
One month later, I sat in a courtroom.
Sally testified. She brought screenshots of her own, and photographs of them together.
The evidence stood strong.
Jack didn’t look at me once.
Outside the courthouse, Patricia squeezed my shoulder. “You did well in there.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said. “He did this to himself.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said.
I laughed. “You never meant for me to find out.”
“Lauren—”
“Save it,” I said. “Your visitation schedule is in the paperwork. Don’t be late picking up the kids on Friday.”
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