It was just a regular Saturday. I was in the yard, knee-deep in weeds, soaking in the warm afternoon sun, when I noticed Dylan, my neighbor Lisa’s son, making his way up the driveway. Dylan was about nine or ten, a quiet but determined kid who rarely asked for anything. Today, though, he looked different—nervous, with his hands shoved into his pockets and his eyes cast downward.

“Hey, Ms. Taylor,” he mumbled when he stopped a few feet away. Normally, he was more outgoing, so his shy demeanor immediately grabbed my attention. I wiped the dirt from my hands and smiled. “Hey, Dylan! Everything okay?”

He shifted on his feet, still avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, um… sorry to bother you, but can I swim in your pool for a little while?”

It was an innocent enough request, but it took me by surprise. Dylan had never asked to swim in my pool before, although the neighborhood kids often did during the summer. With his mom gone a lot, he spent most of his time alone, so I figured he just wanted something to do.

“Of course,” I said, glancing at the pool. “It’s warm today. You’ll feel better cooling off. Want some lemonade?”

He smiled faintly and shook his head. “No, thanks.”

I watched him walk over to the pool, spreading out his towel on one of the loungers. There was something off about the way he was acting, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I shrugged it off, reminding myself that he was just a kid.

I decided to get him a glass of lemonade anyway, figuring he might change his mind. As I walked back outside, I saw him removing his shirt—and that’s when everything changed.

I froze, the glass slipping from my hand and shattering at my feet. My heart pounded, and I could hardly breathe.

There, on Dylan’s back, was a birthmark. A large, irregular shape just below his shoulder blade. It was exactly the same as the one my husband had—a distinct, rare mark in the same place, the same shape. My mind raced. How could this be?

My husband had always joked about how unique his birthmark was, like some blotched star. Now, here it was, on a boy who lived next door. My stomach churned, and I felt as though I had stepped into a nightmare.

“Dylan,” I called, trying to keep my voice steady.

He looked up from the pool, water dripping off his hair. “Yeah?”

I pointed toward his back, struggling to stay calm. “That birthmark… how long have you had it?”

He blinked, confused by the question. “Since I was a baby, I guess. My mom said I’ve always had it. Why?”

I forced a smile. “No reason. Just curious.”

Dylan shrugged and went back to swimming, blissfully unaware of the storm swirling inside me. I couldn’t process what I had just seen. My husband’s birthmark, on another child—Lisa’s child. I turned away quickly, my mind racing. How was this possible?

That evening, I couldn’t sit still. I paced the living room, my heart pounding as I chewed on my nails. My husband, oblivious to my inner turmoil, called out from the kitchen.

“Taylor, are you okay? You’ve been pacing for ages.”

I jumped at the sound of his voice. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

He gave me a puzzled look but didn’t press any further. I knew I couldn’t confront him without proof, but I couldn’t just ignore what I’d seen either.

Later that night, while he was in the shower, I moved quickly. I grabbed his comb from the nightstand, pulling a few strands of his hair free and stuffing them into a plastic bag. The next day, when Dylan came over to swim again, I discreetly collected a few of his hairs from his towel.

A few days later, I sat at the kitchen table, the DNA test results trembling in my hands. My heart raced as I opened the envelope, my breath catching in my throat. The numbers stared back at me: 99.9% match.

I dropped the paper, my world shattering around me. My husband, the man I trusted, had fathered another child with the woman who lived right next door. I had been unknowingly living alongside the woman he had cheated with, watching their son grow up, and I had no idea. But I wasn’t going to let this break me. No, I had a plan.

The following weekend, I threw a “neighborhood BBQ” and invited both Lisa and my husband, neither knowing the other would be there. I played the perfect wife, smiling and laughing with them, all while holding onto the devastating secret I’d uncovered.

When the moment was right, I made my move. As we sat around the backyard table, I poured myself a glass of wine, took a slow sip, and set it down. Then, casually, I dropped the bombshell.

“I got the results back from a DNA test recently,” I said, my voice steady. “Turns out, there’s something interesting about Dylan.”

The silence that followed was deafening. My husband’s face went pale, and Lisa’s fork clattered onto her plate. She stared at me, wide-eyed, her voice barely a whisper. “What… what do you mean?”

I gave her a cold smile. “You know exactly what I mean, Lisa.”

My husband’s hand tightened around his drink, but he said nothing. He knew. There was no talking his way out of this.

I stood up, my voice firm. “Pack your things and leave,” I said, glaring at my husband. “The house is mine, and I’ve already spoken to a lawyer. You’re not going to fight me on this.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. I wasn’t done. “And just so you know, I recorded this conversation. Everyone will know exactly who you are.”

His face flushed with panic, but I didn’t wait for a response. I turned my back and walked into the house.

Within a week, he was gone—no house, no family, no reputation. Lisa moved away soon after, too ashamed to stay. Dylan, though, was just an innocent kid caught in the middle, so I set up a trust fund for him, ensuring his father couldn’t touch a penny of it.

In the end, it wasn’t karma that got him—it was me. And as I watched him drive away for the last time, I didn’t feel sadness. I didn’t feel guilt. I felt peace.

The last thing he ever said to me was, “Taylor… how could you?”

I smiled and replied, “How could I? You tell me.”

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