The glow of the city at night is my office. Every ding of the ride-hail app, a new face, a new story. Most nights, it’s just background noise, a rhythmic hum of strangers and destinations. It’s a job. It pays the bills. It’s what I do. My husband, he works a regular 9 to 5. We’ve been together for years. Built a life. A quiet, comfortable life. Our anniversary is coming up, actually. Fifteen years. I’d planned a surprise, something small, intimate.
Tonight started like any other. The late shift. Rain slicked the streets, making the city lights stretch into blurry reflections. A notification pinged. Pick up on Elm Street. Standard fare. I pulled up, and two figures emerged from the shadow of an awning, hurrying towards my car. A man and a woman.
They opened the back door, laughing, a cascade of bright, carefree sound that somehow cut through the steady drumming of the rain. “Thanks, we just need to get to…” the man started, his voice a low, familiar rumble that made an odd chord vibrate in my chest. My hands, gripping the steering wheel, felt suddenly cold.
A homeless elderly man | Source: Pexels
I glanced in the rearview mirror as they settled in. The woman was beautiful, younger than me, probably. Her hair was a rich, dark cascade, and she had a radiant smile. My eyes then drifted to him. And then, my breath caught.
No.
It couldn’t be.
My heart stopped.
The face in my rearview mirror, backlit by the passing streetlights, was unmistakable. The way his hair curled just above his collar. The slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled. The confident set of his jaw.
IT WAS HIM. MY HUSBAND.
Panic clawed its way up my throat. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe. He didn’t see me. The taxi partition, the dim interior lights, my worn cap pulled low – it was enough to obscure me. He was oblivious. Laughing. Holding her hand.
Elderly man walking | Source: Pexels
“Happy anniversary, darling,” she cooed, her voice sweet and innocent, a poisoned dagger to my ears. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “I can’t believe it’s already a year.”
A year.
My anniversary with him was fifteen years. Fifteen years this month. And he was celebrating “a year” with her.
My world tilted. The familiar city outside my window blurred. The rain seemed to intensify, matching the storm raging inside me. HE WAS CHEATING. AND I, HIS WIFE, WAS DRIVING HIM AND HIS MISTRESS TO THEIR ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.
What do I do? Do I pull over? Do I scream? Do I slam on the brakes, turn around, and confront them right here, right now, in the unforgiving glare of the streetlights? The thought flashed through my mind, a wild, visceral urge to unleash all the fury and heartbreak bubbling inside me.
Elderly man sitting at a table | Source: Unsplash
But then, a different thought, colder, sharper, pierced through the haze of shock. No. Not like that. He wouldn’t get off that easy. He wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I would give him an anniversary he’d never forget, alright. Just not the one he was expecting.
I clicked the meter on. “Where to?” I managed, my voice a strained, low croak that even I barely recognized.
He rattled off an address. An upscale restaurant I’d seen reviews for, one we could never quite afford. His special place with her.
The drive began. Every turn of the wheel felt deliberate, heavy. My hands were shaking, but I held them steady. I kept my eyes fixed on the road, on the rearview mirror, watching them. They were so happy. So in love, it seemed. His arm was around her. He stroked her hair. He whispered something, and she giggled, burying her face in his shoulder.
I wanted to crash the car. I wanted to scream. I wanted to weep. Instead, I drove.
A man checking items at a grocery store | Source: Unsplash
I took the longest route possible. I knew the city like the back of my hand. Every detour, every backstreet, every unnecessary loop. The meter ticked up, a silent, damning indictment of his betrayal. They were too engrossed in each other to notice the winding path, the extra minutes ticking by. They chattered about their day, about plans, about their future. Every word was a fresh stab.
“Remember that weekend in the mountains?” she murmured, her voice laced with affection.
“How could I forget?” he chuckled. “Our first trip.”
Our first trip, mine and his, had been to a cabin upstate, fifteen years ago. My stomach churned. The casualness of their deceit was suffocating.
I kept my poker face on, a blank slate. The perfect, anonymous driver. Inside, I was a molten core of rage and anguish. This is real. This is happening. He looked so happy. Happier than he’d looked with me in years, maybe even ever. Was I just… not enough? All those quiet nights, all those shared dreams, all those years of building a life together – was it all a lie?
Elderly man in a suit wearing glasses | Source: Unsplash
The restaurant finally appeared, a beacon of expensive indulgence. I pulled up to the curb, the rain still falling steadily. My hands were clammy. This was it. The moment of truth. My revenge.
They gathered their things, still lost in their happy bubble. He reached into his wallet. “How much?” he asked, a familiar phrase from a stranger.
I told him the inflated fare. He paid, oblivious, dropping a generous tip. “Thanks, pal,” he said, and for a split second, his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. No flicker of recognition. Nothing. I was just the driver.
They stepped out, holding hands, pulling the door shut behind them. I watched them walk away, under the canopy of the restaurant entrance, his arm around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder. They looked perfect.
I put the car in drive, but didn’t pull away immediately. I watched them, a macabre fascination gripping me. I watched as they laughed, as he leaned in to kiss her forehead, as she squeezed his hand. And then, as she adjusted her grip on his arm, the light from the restaurant caught something on her finger.
A RING.
Not an engagement ring. Not a promise ring. It was a simple, elegant band. Thin. Gold.
Just like mine.
Elderly man in a suit | Source: Pexels
My blood ran cold. No. It couldn’t be.
As they neared the entrance, she turned to him, her face alight with joy, and said, just loud enough for me to hear over the hum of my engine, in a voice that was pure, unfiltered adoration:
“Happy one year, honey. I love you, my husband.”
My breath hitched. The words echoed in the enclosed space of my taxi, vibrating through every fiber of my being.
HUSBAND.
Man working at a grocery store | Source: Unsplash
He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t having an affair. He was married to her.
He wasn’t my husband. He was her husband.
And I… I was the mistress. I had been the other woman all along. The woman kept in the dark for fifteen years. The secret. The lie. The unwitting participant in his monstrous deception.
The surprise I had planned for our anniversary felt like a sick, cruel joke. Fifteen years of my life. Erased. Replaced.
The engine idled, a low, mournful rumble. The rain continued to fall, washing over the city, washing over me. But it couldn’t wash away the truth. It couldn’t wash away the shattering realization that the man I loved, the man I married, had built an entire second life, a second family, and I had just driven them to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.
My revenge was nothing compared to the truth. The joke was on me. And I had just delivered my own eulogy.
