When Derek returned from his “work trip,” he looked completely spent, like a disaster film’s closing scene. He was pale, glassy-eyed, and barely had the energy to drag his suitcase inside. “I feel awful, Leigh,” he muttered, claiming stress from the conference destroyed him. Guilt pricked at me despite running on fumes myself with our newborn twins. However, I immediately insisted he move to the guest room; he was not going near the babies until we knew what he had. Derek, surprisingly, didn’t argue. He shuffled toward the lower level like a detour was too much effort, dropping his bag like an anchor where he stood.
By morning, an angry red rash had bloomed across his torso, shoulders, and neck. The sight of the tight clusters twisting something sharp and scared in my gut. I wasn’t a doctor, but my frantic online searching led to one shocking word: chickenpox. “Derek,” I said gently, “This looks like chickenpox. Your rash matches almost every photo.” He immediately denied it, croaking that it was just stress and a trashed immune system. Still, I went into survival mode. I brought him trays of food, made his mother’s chicken soup, and ran cool washcloths over him, while he groaned like he was surviving something noble.
I scrubbed every surface and constantly sterilized bottles and pacifiers. The twins were not vaccinated yet, so I kept them strictly on the upper level, away from their sick father. I showered constantly, even in the middle of the night, wiping every doorknob and washing his bedding far more often than he ever bothered to say “thank you.” Derek eventually complained, “You don’t have to fuss so much, Leigh.” I retorted that I absolutely did, given the twins’ lack of vaccination. When I asked if he had read any parenting books, he just shifted uncomfortably, avoiding the topic. All the while, he kept feeding me stories about the terrible conference pressure and long nights preparing slide decks.
I tried not to think about how distant Derek felt, even before this trip. We were supposed to have dinner with my mom, my stepdad Kevin, and my stepsister Kelsey that weekend. I was about to cancel when Kevin texted me to reschedule. His message explained they couldn’t make it because Kelsey was sick. He added that she had chickenpox, and they were sorry to miss being around the twins. Then, he sent a photo. Seeing that image, everything in my world changed instantly. Kelsey was cocooned in a blanket, her face dotted with the exact same angry red blisters I’d been treating on Derek. Same placement. Same pattern. Same week.
Kelsey’s “girl’s trip” and Derek’s “work trip” were clearly one and the same. My body knew what my mind fought to deny. I stared at the photo, tapping the screen, hoping I had misinterpreted the blisters, but my instincts believed the timing. I swallowed the knot in my throat and called out a weak “Yeah,” when Derek asked if everything was okay. That night, I couldn’t be the fool anymore. With the twins finally asleep, I took Derek’s phone, closed myself in the laundry room, and opened the Hidden photo album. The first image was him in a white robe, then Kelsey in an identical robe with her hand on his chest. The next image of his mouth on my stepsister’s neck sent the phone flying
I confronted them immediately, and the betrayal became a tangible infection in the room. Kelsey stood crying, saying, “It wasn’t supposed to happen, Leigh.” My mother, taking charge, told Kelsey she needed to leave. When Derek moved to follow her, my stepdad Kevin boomed, “If you ever come near Leigh or those babies again, you’ll have me to answer to, Derek. Do you understand?” Derek froze, looking around for support that never came, and then he simply left. The next morning, I deep-cleaned the house and brought the twins downstairs. I sent Derek one final text after he begged to return: “You risked our children’s lives, Derek. Everything you’ve done is unforgivable. Do not contact me unless it’s through a lawyer.” The virus, the lie, and the affair had finally set me free.
