While away on a work trip, I opened the baby monitor expecting to see my toddler fast asleep. Instead, my breath caught in my throat — a woman I didn’t recognize was tucking him in, stroking his hair as if he were her own. My heart pounded. I called my husband, Logan. He wasn’t home. The second I asked who she was, he hung up.
Panicked, I called my brother, who rushed over. Later, he told me he overheard the woman whisper: “When you divorce your wife, Ben will be my son too.” That single sentence shattered every illusion I had about my marriage. The next morning, I flew home. Logan scrambled for excuses, but the trust was gone. Within days, I filed for divorce. I won full custody, though I still allowed visitation—because my son deserved his father, even if I no longer did.
Weeks later, I stumbled upon the woman’s Instagram. Claire, a boutique stylist, smiling brightly in every photo. Out of curiosity—and maybe for closure—I booked an appointment under another name. When she greeted me warmly, I returned the smile before quietly sliding my phone across the counter. On the screen was the baby monitor photo: her kissing my son’s forehead.
Her face drained of color. I didn’t raise my voice. Instead, I handed her a card for a therapist. “Just in case,” I said softly, then walked away, leaving her staring at her own reflection. Logan still tries to call sometimes, but I don’t answer. My life is calmer now—just me, Ben, and the soft glow of the baby monitor at night. Each evening, as I tuck him in, I whisper: “No one will ever take your place. And no one will ever take mine.”