Jack never took a day off. Not for colds, not for food poisoning, not even when his own mother passed away. So when he sat slouched at our small kitchen table one Tuesday morning, pale and coughing, and said he wouldn’t be going to work, I stopped mid-toast.
“Are you okay?” I asked, tossing my burnt toast in the trash.
“I feel horrible,” he croaked.
“You look worse.” I handed him some Tylenol. “Go back to bed. I’ll take care of the kids.”
He nodded weakly and shuffled off. I went back to the morning chaos—making lunches, finding shoes, chasing our three kids around. Ellie was begging for a snake again, Noah was stressing about his science project, and Emma was glued to her phone like her life depended on it.
Then I opened the front door—and froze.
Standing on the porch was… Jack.
But not the Jack who was sick in bed. This was a life-size, eerily realistic statue of him—white as porcelain. Even the little scar on his chin and the bend in his nose were perfectly sculpted.
“Is that… Dad?” Ellie whispered.
I couldn’t speak. My heart raced. Emma’s phone dropped to the floor. And just then, the real Jack appeared in his robe. He stopped cold.
His face turned completely pale.
Without saying a word, he rushed past us, grabbed the statue like it was a body, and dragged it inside.
“What is going on?” I demanded. “Where did that come from? Who made it?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes.
“Jack, you’re going to have to explain this.”
“Please. Just take the kids. I promise I’ll explain later.”
I’d never seen him look so rattled. Cornered. Haunted.
So I nodded. “But when I get back—you owe me the truth.”
As I loaded the kids into the car, Noah tugged my sleeve. “Mom… this was under the statue.”
He handed me a crumpled note. My stomach dropped before I even opened it.
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.
—Sally
My world stopped. I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket.
“Did you read it?” I asked Noah.
“No. It felt private.”
“That’s right,” I said softly. “It was.”
I smiled my best fake mom-smile and drove away like nothing was wrong.
By 10 a.m., I had dropped off the kids and was crying in a grocery store parking lot, shaking so hard I could barely breathe. Then I wiped my face, took a photo of the note, and searched: divorce attorneys near me. I called the first woman on the list.
“I need to speak to someone today. It’s urgent.”
By noon, I was sitting in Patricia’s office. I slid the note across the desk.
“This woman sculpted my husband. And now she’s blackmailing him.”
Patricia raised an eyebrow. “This suggests an affair… but we’ll need more proof.”
“I’ll get it,” I said.
“Legally,” she added.
“Of course,” I lied.
That night, Jack fell asleep at the kitchen table. His laptop was still open. I crept over like he was a stranger. One glance, and I wasn’t heartbroken—I was enraged.
Dozens of emails:
- Please don’t do this. I’ll pay you for the sculpture.
- My wife can’t know.
- I still love you, Sally. I just… can’t leave yet. Not until the kids are older.
Screenshot. Screenshot. Screenshot.
I sent everything to myself and copied Sally’s email.
The next day, I wrote to her:
“I found your statue and your note. I need answers. Please be honest.”
She replied fast.
“I’m sorry. He told me he was divorced. I only found out last week.”
“How long were you together?” I asked.
“Almost a year. We met at an art gallery. I’m a sculptor.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Not anymore.”
“Would you testify?”
“Yes.”
A month later, we were in court. Sally brought emails, pictures—everything. Jack didn’t meet my eyes once. When the judge gave me full custody, the house, and ordered Jack to pay Sally $10,000, he looked like someone had finally unmasked him.
Outside, Patricia smiled. “You did great.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I replied. “He did this to himself.”
Jack tried to speak as I walked to my car.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said.
“No,” I said. “You just never meant for me to find out.”
“Lauren—”
“Save it. Your visitation schedule’s in the paperwork. Don’t be late.”
I got into the car, hands steady on the wheel, and drove away—leaving behind a man standing with a statue, a lie, and the shattered pieces of everything he thought he’d get away with.
Note: All images used in this article are AI-generated and intended for illustrative purposes only.
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