Chapter 1: The Diagnosis and the Camera

The day I got my husband’s diagnosis, he suddenly installed a camera in our master bedroom.

I remember standing in the hallway, the scent of pine cleaner still lingering from Molly’s afternoon sweep, watching him with a mix of confusion and dread as he tore open an Amazon box. He pulled out a camera—some high-end Nest thing, of course, because Derek couldn’t stand anything less—and screwed it into the wall above the dresser, dead center, aimed right at the bed. He fiddled with the Nest app on his phone, muttering about the WiFi, making sure everything was just so.

That night, I overheard him swearing on the phone:

"I’ll never touch her again. I’ve sent you the account and password—you can log in and check anytime."

He sounded desperate—voice thick and ragged, like he’d just finished running a marathon. My heart slammed so hard I thought it would wake Caleb. I had to press my palm over my mouth to keep from gasping. Our son’s room was only a few feet away.

"I swear, I won’t touch her again. I’m done. I’m choosing love over everything."

His words, so dramatic and foreign on his tongue, hung in the air like a dare. Watching his flushed, passionate face, I silently fed the diagnosis into the paper shredder, the machine whirring as if to swallow the truth.

Remain chaste for love...?

My mind reeled. Was this real life, or a bad soap opera? Fine. Then stay chaste for the rest of your life.