Not with rage or impulsiveness, but with calculation and precision. Over the next few days, I became the model patient. I took my medication without complaint, did my breathing exercises diligently, and even started light physical therapy exercises ahead of schedule. Sandra seemed relieved at my improved mood, mistaking my focus for acceptance of my situation.
Little did she know that every repetition of my abdominal exercises was fueled by determination. Not just to heal my body, but to prepare for what was coming. The signs of her affair became more obvious as my medication decreased and my awareness increased. Unexplained absences, late nights at work, the constant ding of text messages she'd quickly hide, wine glasses in the sink from nights I'd been asleep, and once, a man's watch on our bathroom counter that disappeared before I could mention it.
Three weeks after my surgery, when Sandra thought I was napping, I managed to get hold of her unlocked phone while she was in the shower. The text messages confirmed everything. "Miss you already. Can't wait for tonight."
"Is he asleep? I can come earlier if you want." "Don't worry, babe. He's knocked out cold."
"Door's unlocked." Each message was like a knife twisting in my gut. But I didn't let emotion overtake me. Instead, I took photos of the conversations with my own phone, carefully replaced hers, and began planning.
My first call was to Marcus, my oldest friend. We'd been close since college, and he'd gone on to a career in military intelligence before starting his own private security firm. If anyone could help me document this betrayal properly, it was him. "Jesus, Dave," he said when I told him everything.
"That's beyond cold." "I need proof," I told him. "Not just for the divorce, but for myself. I need to know the full extent of what's happening in my own home."
Two days later, Marcus came by under the pretense of checking on me as an old friend. Sandra was polite, but clearly annoyed by the intrusion. While she made coffee in the kitchen, Marcus quickly and efficiently installed three hidden cameras. One in the hallway leading to the guest room, one in the living room, and one in the guest room itself.
All were motion-activated, with audio capabilities and cloud storage that only I could access. "You sure about this?" Marcus asked before leaving. "What you find might be worse than what you imagine." "I need to know the truth," I said.
"All of it." The truth, as it turned out, was even uglier than I had imagined. The cameras captured everything over the next two weeks. Mark was indeed from her work, a new marketing director who had started just before my surgery.
The footage showed them coming in late at night, sometimes bringing takeout and wine, laughing on our couch while watching shows we used to watch together. It captured their kisses, their hurried movements to the guest room, and worst of all, their conversations about me. "How much longer is he going to be laid up?" Mark asked one night. "At least another few weeks," Sandra sighed.