My wife, Camille, is a true French lady. We met in college while she was an exchange student studying International Politics. We’ve been together ever since.

Camille’s parents live in France but visit us twice a year. I’ve picked up a few odd French words and phrases over the years, but the language never really stuck with me.

Besides knowing “mon chéri” and some French cuisine terms, my French vocabulary is pretty limited. It’s been just four days since my in-laws arrived, and I already feel out of place at the dinner table since everyone speaks in French.

To ease the situation, I thought it would be a good idea to invite my friend, Nolan, over for dinner to meet Camille’s parents and also give me someone to chat with.

We were all at the table, enjoying a feast with delicious bouillabaisse. Nolan and I were deep in a conversation about a work audit, while Camille and her parents were happily chatting away in French.

Everything seemed great until Nolan’s face turned ghostly pale, and he nudged my arm quite forcefully.

“You need to go upstairs and look under your bed. Trust me,” he said urgently.

At first, I wanted to laugh it off; it seemed absurd. But the look in his eyes told me he was dead serious.

I excused myself from the table, feeling a strange sense of dread as I headed to the bedroom.

I hesitated before entering the room, feeling like a character in a suspenseful French noir film. I moved Camille’s silver silk robe off the floor and peered under the bed.

My heart raced as I discovered a single black box. With shaky hands, I opened it, rifling through its contents, trying to be quick in case Camille came looking for me.

What I found left me shocked: photographs of Camille in revealing attire, scattered love letters to someone named Benoit, and various trinkets that hinted at an affair.

The realization hit me like a ton of bricks, making me feel dizzy and nauseous. Before I could fully process it, everything went black.

When I woke up, I found myself in a hospital room, surrounded by empty beds. The bright lights hurt my eyes, and the smell of disinfectant was overwhelming.

“Woah,” I whispered, my throat dry.

Nolan was sitting next to me, looking concerned.

“You fainted in your bedroom, man,” he said. “What happened?”

Memories came flooding back—the black box, my panic, everything. Inside that box was evidence of Camille’s betrayal.

“You were taking forever,” Nolan explained. “So I followed you and found you passed out. I closed the box and slid it back under the bed before calling Camille and an ambulance.”

“How did you know?” I asked, still bewildered.

“I studied French in high school, Chad,” he said. “During dinner, Camille mentioned hiding something under the bed, so I figured something was up. I’m sorry.”

“Where is Camille?” I asked.

“She went to the cafeteria to get some coffee. She said she needed a break.”

I leaned back, feeling the weight of what I’d discovered. Memories of secretive letters Camille had been receiving came rushing back.

The following day, I was discharged, and Nolan took me home. Camille was all over me, offering nutritious drinks and fussing over my well-being. But nothing felt right anymore.

That afternoon, I knew I had to confront her. I couldn’t look at Camille the same way.

“I can’t stay in this marriage,” I told her as she handed me a drink.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, looking puzzled.

“I know about the black box under the bed,” I said bluntly.

Camille turned pale.

“I can explain,” she said, jumping up.

“I’ve seen enough, Camille. Nothing you say will change that.”

“Just listen,” she pleaded. “My parents arranged for me to meet Benoit. They wanted me to be with someone French so we could have wholly French children.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So you met him, hit it off, and started a relationship?”

“I want a divorce. Now,” I said, cutting her off.

Camille accused me of invading her privacy and spied on her. She even threatened not to sign the divorce papers. But I told her that there was no love left after what she did.

“Give me another chance,” she begged.

But I couldn’t.

During the divorce process, Camille fought over everything—the house, spousal support, and even wanted me to fund her annual trips to France. I refused all but the house. I couldn’t bear to live there anymore. Now, I reside in a bachelor pad closer to work.

Sure, I’m heartbroken. But at least I’m no longer living a lie. And that feels liberating.

I’m extremely grateful to Nolan for revealing the truth and standing by me during the whole ordeal.

Now, I can’t help but wonder if Camille will end up with Benoit. I bet her parents would be delighted.