The drawer smelled faintly of cologne he’d stopped using last year—the expensive one I bought for our fifth anniversary. I sat down on the edge of the bed, folder in my lap, chest tight like I couldn’t get a full breath. Inside were printed emails, screenshots, and a lease agreement… for a one-bedroom apartment twenty minutes away, under his name only.
The lease had been signed three weeks ago. My hands were shaking. I put everything back exactly as I found it, shut the drawer quietly, and walked downstairs like I was sleepwalking.
He was on the couch, laughing at something on his phone. Probably another meme about “nagging wives” or “dad bods being sexy but not mom bods.”
I didn’t say a word that night. I just watched him.
Owen Cooper’s Instagram Story post after he won his Emmy, posted on September 15, 2025. | Source: Instagram/owencooper
Really watched him. The way he scrolled past texts from his coworkers, the way he turned his phone screen slightly away when I got up to grab water. My husband, Dario, had always been the sarcastic type, but lately it had turned cruel.
And now this—his so-called “exit plan”—felt like a physical slap. The worst part? We’d just paid off the mortgage.
Just thrown a small anniversary BBQ in our backyard. My family was still talking about how “solid” we seemed. I couldn’t sleep.
I lay in bed beside him, listening to his breathing, wondering how long he’d been preparing to leave me. Wondering if he was seeing someone else. The next morning, I sent a message to my cousin Sayuri, who worked at a boutique law office downtown.
I didn’t say much—just that I needed to understand my rights if a separation ever came up. She called within ten minutes. Her tone wasn’t dramatic, just calm and practical, which I appreciated more than I can say.
By that weekend, I’d moved a few valuables into a safe deposit box under my name and quietly opened a new checking account. I told no one, not even my best friend, not until I knew for sure what I was dealing with. Then came the real twist.
The following Tuesday, I faked a headache and left work early. I had no plan, just a hunch. I parked around the corner from the address on that lease, heart hammering like I’d had five coffees.
Scott Jacoby posing with his Emmy alongside Ellen Corby at the 25th Primetime Emmy Awards in Los Angeles, California on May 20, 1973. | Source: Getty Images
When I saw him walk out of that building—laughing, holding a grocery bag—and then kiss a woman on the cheek before unlocking the door for her, something inside me snapped. She was younger, sure. But not insanely young.
Maybe mid-30s. Long braids. Confident walk.
I stayed low in my car, trembling with anger, betrayal, and honestly… disbelief. He had a whole side life. It wasn’t just a Plan B—it was already Plan A.
That night, I confronted him. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw anything.
I sat him down and asked, as calmly as I could, “Who is she?”
He blinked, went pale, and muttered, “What are you talking about?”
I pulled out my phone and showed him the picture. Not a great shot, but clear enough: him, her, the groceries, the kiss. Dario didn’t deny it.
He just said, “It’s not what you think.” Which is what people always say when it’s exactly what you think. He confessed that he’d been seeing her for “a while,” that he “didn’t mean to hurt” me, that it started after “a rough patch” in our marriage last year. I asked why he didn’t just leave then.
His answer? “Because you were going through so much with your dad’s health and I didn’t want to add to it.”
A portrait of Scott Jacoby circa 1974. | Source: Getty Images
Wow. So noble of him to stick around while cheating in the background.
I told him to sleep in the guest room and not speak to me unless it was about logistics. That week was hell. The silence between us felt radioactive.
He tried to apologize, to talk, but I didn’t want words. I wanted actions. So I started making some.
I contacted Sayuri again, this time for real. I got everything in writing. The house was technically in both our names, but I’d paid more into it.
The account he used to pay the lease was joint—idiot—and I had proof. So we froze the accounts and separated our finances within days. And then came the karmic part.
Turns out, his “side chick”—her name was Delphine—thought he was divorced already. When I messaged her (not proud, but I needed to), she was stunned. Genuinely blindsided.
Apparently, he’d told her we were “roommates working on the final paperwork.” Classic. To her credit, she didn’t lash out at me. She left him.
Immediately. Dario didn’t handle it well. The same week I had the locks changed, he tried to come back with some speech about how “we could start fresh.” Said he realized what he stood to lose.
I just looked at him—this man who used to make me laugh so hard I cried, who now couldn’t even face his own consequences—and said, “We’re not doing reruns.”
By month’s end, I’d filed. I sold a few pieces of furniture and started converting the guest room into a small art studio—something I’d always wanted. I bought a used easel, some cheap acrylics, and let myself play for the first time in years.
The silence in the house didn’t feel radioactive anymore. It felt clean. The unexpected cherry on top?
Delphine and I actually stayed in touch. Nothing deep, but supportive. She told me how blindsided she felt, how she’d gotten out of a messy relationship two years ago and was furious with herself for falling into another.
Roxana Zal posing with her award at the Emmys in Pasadena, California on September 23, 1984. | Source: Getty Images
We shared a lot of “wow, men really have the audacity” texts. It was oddly healing. About three months post-separation, I posted a few of my paintings online.
Nothing serious—just me playing around. But a former coworker saw one and asked if I’d do a commission. That turned into two.
Then five. Turns out, when you clear the toxic out of your life, space opens up. I didn’t see that coming.
I thought I’d just survive. But I started to thrive. I lost weight—not because of anything he said, but because I was finally treating my body kindly again.
