One afternoon, my four-year-old looked up at me and asked, completely out of the blue,
“Mommy, will you cry when I go to the beach with Daddy and my other mom?”
I froze.
“My… what?”
She shrugged. “My other mom. Mom Lizzie says you’re the mean mom, and she’s kind.”
I smiled through a cracking heart and took her to my mother’s house that night. After she fell asleep, I opened the nanny cam app I’d installed months earlier.
There was my husband—laughing in our kitchen. Kissing another woman. Wearing my robe.
Lizzie.
They talked casually about the beach trip. About schools. About me moving out “eventually.” Then she picked up my daughter’s stuffed rabbit.
“She called me Mommy again today,” Lizzie laughed.
My husband didn’t correct her.
I didn’t confront him. I planned.
By the next day, I had a lawyer, screenshots, recordings, and timestamps. Two days later, I met with my daughter’s teacher and counselor. When “Mom Lizzie” came up, I slid my phone across the table.
“She is not authorized,” I said calmly.
That night, I played the footage at home. Lizzie went pale. My husband tried to explain.
“No,” I said. “You’ll listen.”
He moved out that night.
A year later, it’s just me and my daughter. When she whispers, “You’re my real mom,” I know I listened at exactly the right moment.
