Every Christmas, Lennox and I promised our kids a trip—no matter how broke or busy we were. This year, he said we couldn’t afford it… but I discovered exactly where the money went.
I’m Selah, 40, married to Lennox, 42. We have two kids: Aune, 10, and Aria, 7. From the outside, we seemed like any normal suburban family.
Our one sacred tradition was the Christmas trip. Every year, no matter the budget, we went somewhere—an old cabin, a small beach motel, or a town with twinkling lights and hot chocolate. It wasn’t luxury; it was family.
This year, I started planning as usual. I had tabs open with flights, hotels, and Christmas markets. The kids asked, “Where are we going, Mom?” and I replied, “I’m working on it.”
One night, I sat beside Lennox on the couch.
“Look at this place—indoor pool, sledding, breakfast included—” I said, turning my laptop toward him.
He didn’t even glance.
“Selah… we can’t go anywhere this year.”
My heart sank. “What do you mean?”
“Work’s tight. Layoffs, no bonuses. We need to be smart.”
In eleven years, he’d never said no to Christmas.
I forced a nod. “Okay. We’ll do something small at home.”
Telling the kids hurt. Aune tried to shrug it off, Aria cried. I held it together until I was alone, then broke down. For a few days, I believed him.
A couple of nights later, Lennox was in the shower. Both our phones were on the couch. One buzzed.
I picked it up—his phone—and saw the notification: I can’t wait for our weekend together. That spa resort looks incredible. What’s the address again?
My chest tightened. Weekend together… spa resort…
I unlocked the phone and discovered the conversation with “Loo.” Real name revealed: Loo, his mistress. Photos of a luxury spa, rose petals on a massive bed, a booked “Couples Escape Package.”
Loo: “Finally, just us. No kids, no stress.”
Lennox: “I need a break from my ‘perfect family man’ act.”
Loo: “Did your bonus come in?”
Lennox: “Yep. Using it on us. You’re worth it.”
The bonus he said didn’t exist.
I scrolled through weeks of messages: I love you, I wish I could wake up next to you every day. My world tilted.
Then, calmness took over. I took screenshots and forwarded them to my email. I checked the resort’s website: We’re short-staffed! Temporary massage therapists needed. Perfect.
The next morning, Lennox made coffee as if nothing was wrong.
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “I have to go out of town this weekend. Last-minute client thing.”
I smiled gently. “Of course. Work is important.”
Relief crossed his face. I kissed the kids goodbye and drove straight to the resort.
The place was extravagant—tall windows, soft music, the scent of eucalyptus. Couples in white robes drifted past. I checked in as a temporary massage therapist. My old spa experience made them accept me immediately.
Ten minutes later, I was ready, uniform on, name tag pinned: Selah. I glanced at the schedule. 4:00 p.m.—VIP guests: Lennox and Loo.
My stomach churned. I grabbed the tray of oils and hot stones and walked to Room Six. They were already on the tables, whispering, unaware I had arrived.
“Good afternoon,” I said, setting the tray down. “I’ll be your therapist today. Are you both comfortable?”
“Yeah,” Lennox mumbled. “This place is insane.”
“Totally worth it,” Loo giggled.
I placed my hands on Lennox’s back. His body relaxed under my touch, oblivious to the truth. I moved to Loo, voice soft and professional.
“So… how long have you two been using our kids’ Christmas money for these weekends?”
Lennox froze. Loo’s foot jerked under the sheet.
He turned, eyes wide. “Selah?”
“I’m Selah,” I said. “His wife.”
Color drained from Loo’s face.
“You told me you were separated,” she whispered.
“We share a bed, a house, and two kids,” I said. “We are not ‘basically separated.’”
Lennox tried to speak, but I cut him off. “You lied to her, too. You canceled our trip while this was booked. You watched Aria cry. You lied about the bonus.”
I picked up the phone and called the front desk.
“Hi, this is Selah in Room Six. Cancel all remaining spa services for Lennox and Loo. Keep all nonrefundable charges on file. Thank you.”
Lennox hissed, “You’re insane! Do you know how much this costs?”
“Yes. I know exactly. My lawyer will too.”
Loo climbed off the table, robe clutched, eyes wet. “I’m not staying. You lied about everything.”
I nodded. “Maybe do more research on the men you date.”
She left.
Now it was just Lennox and me.
“One mistake?” he asked.
“One mistake is months of lying, sneaking, and using our kids’ money.”
I had already talked to a lawyer. Custody, house, papers—everything ready.
Lennox sat silent, spa music faint in the background.
“Get dressed,” I said. “You’re wasting my table.”
I walked out.
The divorce went faster than expected. Lennox stopped fighting. I got primary custody, he got visitation and his car. I kept the house. I didn’t aim to crush him financially. I wanted peace for the kids.
Months later, an old colleague called. “Emma? Things caught up with him. He lost his wife, kids, and job. She left, too.”
I listened, quiet.
At my kitchen table, Aria’s drawings on the fridge, I remembered that room, that moment. For the first time, I realized—I stopped letting him write the story.
When Aria asked, “Are we doing our Christmas trip again?” I said yes, without hesitation.
“Even without Dad?”
“Especially without him. New tradition. Just us.”
We might not have a luxury spa, but we have honesty. That’s the real upgrade.