Before her death, my mom left me her woodland cabin.

 Before her death, my mom left me her woodland cabin.

 It was sacred to me. We used to spend September evenings there, picking blackberries and drinking instant coffee.

One Tuesday, I'd had a terrible day at work. A client screamed at me and a colleague stole my idea. Visiting my mom's cabin was the only thing that could save the day. So, I went there ON IMPULSE. I needed silence.

I pulled onto the dirt road and saw MY HUSBAND'S CAR. I stopped.

He HATED the cabin. He told me that many times. "It's too far," or "You spend more on gas than you'd save in therapy."

I walked quietly to the window, thinking he wanted to surprise me. I pressed my forehead to the glass and went pale. HE WAS ON THE COUCH WITH A WOMAN ON HIS LAP.

I couldn't breathe. I backed out and drove straight home. I needed a plan.

The next day, I bought a set of wireless security cameras and secretly installed them at the cabin.

They revealed that every week he would bring A NEW WOMAN.

He was cheating on me in my sacred place!

Instead of confronting him, I decided to teach him a lesson. BUT I NEEDED TIME.

So I acted like nothing was wrong. I made him dinner and asked about his day.

Two weeks later, I suggested we should go away for a weekend to the cabin. He said, "Sure! We haven't been there FOR AGES!" Oh, how pathetic of him.

He had no idea WHAT was waiting for him.

At around 10 p.m., the porch light flickered, and somebody's car arrived.

"Make yourselves comfortable," I said with a smug smile. THE SHOW WAS ABOUT TO START IN 3...2...1. ⬇️

Full in the first c0mment

My husband used my mom’s cabin to cheat with his coworkers, but catching him was just the beginning. Next, I discovered his betrayal and his true nature.

I’m Ashley, 33 years old, born and raised in western Massachusetts. By day, I work as a contracts analyst, buried in spreadsheets and deadlines. When the noise gets too loud, when the traffic, the people, and the petty office gossip close in, I don’t escape to a yoga class or a bar. I go to my mother’s cabin. Or at least, I used to.

My mom passed away three summers ago. I still remember that day just like it was yesterday. I turned 30 that summer. Cancer took her away from me. It came fast and lingered. She was 57, stubborn, and soft in all the right places.

The cabin had been her hideaway, a little two-bedroom pine shell tucked between a maple grove and a creek that hummed year-round. She called it her “quiet house,” and she meant that with her whole soul.

When she left it to me, it wasn’t about the deed or the keys. It was sacred. The porch sagged like a tired grin; the woodstove coughed more than it heated, and the roof sighed under the weight of too many seasons.

Still, it was the one place in the world where I could hear myself think, or better yet, hear my mother’s voice when I couldn’t bear my own.

I kept everything the way she left it. Her quilt stayed folded across the back of the couch. A faded jar of her dried lemon balm sat in the window like a shrine. The chipped green mug we used during blackberry season was still in the cupboard. It was mine to protect, and I never, not even once, invited Liam to share it.

Liam, my husband, is 34. He’s charming and tall, always warm to the touch. He’s the man who could make a room feel smaller just by walking into it. But he hated the cabin.

“It’s too far,” he said the first time I invited him.

“There’s no Wi-Fi. No food delivery. Babe, you spend more on gas than you’d save in therapy.”