While on a short work trip, I checked the baby monitor expecting to see my toddler asleep—but instead, I saw a strange woman tucking him in and kissing him goodnight. She moved like she belonged. My heart dropped.

I called my husband, Logan. He wasn’t home. When I confronted him, he went silent, muttered “Damn,” and hung up. Panicked, I called my brother Aaron, who lived nearby. He arrived just as Logan returned from the store. Moments later, Aaron called: they were arguing inside.

“She said, ‘When you divorce your wife, Ben will be my son too,’” Aaron told me.

I was stunned. I barely slept. The next morning, I caught the first flight home.

Logan looked wrecked. I checked on Ben first, then faced my husband. He claimed it was a mistake and swore he told her not to go into the nursery. “You left our baby with your mistress,” I said. “Someone I’ve never met.”

I filed for divorce that week and sought full custody—not to punish Logan, but because I no longer trusted him. He cried in court. I didn’t. I got full custody; he got scheduled visits.

Weeks later, I saw her—Claire—on Instagram. Boutique stylist. I booked an appointment using a fake name.

She greeted me warmly, offered tea, styled me like nothing had happened. After ten minutes, I showed her a screenshot: her, kissing my son.

She froze.

I handed her a therapist’s card and said, “Just in case.”

Logan still calls, says he’s changed. But I sleep fine now—just me, Ben, and the baby monitor’s soft blue glow.