Chapter 1: The Birkin Bag on the Porch

I’d just finished bathing a golden retriever at the shop when a customer Venmoed me $128.88. I blinked at the notification—$128.88? Who pays that for a dog wash? The scent of wet fur still clung to my hands, and the dog, tail wagging, shook out one last spray of water that splattered across my apron. My phone buzzed again. I wiped my hands on a towel before checking the notification. Guess that's just how people pay now. It was an odd amount, but people did all sorts of things with digital payments these days.

"Hey, Mr. Preston, I just got a new pup. Can you teach me how to train him?"

I paused for a second, thumb hovering over the screen. I could almost hear the hopeful tone behind the text, like a kid asking for advice on a new bike. I get a kick out of helping new dog owners—it makes me feel like the neighborhood’s still a little old-fashioned. Even now, with Venmo and TikTok everywhere.

I accepted the payment and fired off a reply, tapping it out quick:

"First, give him a name so he knows who his family is."

I pictured the new puppy, probably chewing on a sneaker somewhere, waiting to hear his first real word. Naming a dog is like planting your flag—this one’s with us, he’s home now. Simple as that.

"Second, give him a job. Reward him when he gets it right—build that trust."

It’s simple, honest work—sometimes I wish people were more like that.

"Third…"

I stopped typing, thumb hovering, letting the message hang there. Sometimes you gotta let folks figure it out.

A few days later, my wife changed the Instagram handle she'd used for ten years. She even did a racy photoshoot—something she’d never dared before. Not in a million years. The next morning, there was a Hermès Birkin bag sitting on our front porch…

The sun was barely up, and the neighborhood was still quiet, except for the distant hum of a delivery van. That box sat on our stoop like it belonged in Beverly Hills, not our sleepy little suburb. We weren’t Beverly Hills. Not even close. The sight of it made my stomach twist with a mix of awe and dread.

"Honey, there’s a delivery for you at the door."

The box was heavier than it looked. Luxury always is—a promise and a threat.

After closing the box back up, I woke my wife.

She blinked, hair tousled, still half-dreaming. I set the box on the coffee table, the Hermès logo practically glowing in the soft morning light.

"I brought it into the living room for you. I’ve got an early grooming appointment for a client, so I’m heading out."

She nodded, distracted, fingers brushing the box like she was worried it might disappear. I kissed her on the forehead, but she barely noticed. That stung more than I wanted to admit.

When I left, I pretended to tie my shoes on the stoop and glanced around. No one suspicious. But that bag was worth more than fifteen grand. Fifteen grand. For a purse. Who would just give my wife something like that for no reason?

I scanned the street—just Mrs. Collins walking her beagle, and a kid skateboarding past. No black sedans, no lurking strangers. Still, the back of my neck prickled. In our neighborhood, a Birkin bag was like a UFO landing in your yard.

And lately, my wife had been acting odd in other ways too. When a woman changes her Instagram handle, it usually means one of two things: a new start, or a new guy. A new start seemed unlikely. But after being married all these years, if my wife was eyeing some younger guy, I could get it. People crave excitement, after all. Especially women my wife’s age—pushing forty, seeing those young trainers with eight-packs at the gym. Who wouldn’t feel a little tempted? Or maybe that’s just my own insecurity talking.

I tried to shrug it off, but the thought gnawed at me. The gym down the street was full of guys who looked like they’d walked out of a Marvel movie. I’d catch her glancing at her phone, smiling at something I couldn’t see. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but the signs were stacking up.

Most importantly, after all these years together, we still didn’t have kids. She always said she didn’t want kids. But was that the whole story?

Sometimes, late at night, I’d lie awake listening to her breathing, wondering if she’d changed her mind and just didn’t want to tell me. The silence between us had grown heavier, thick with all the words we never said. It pressed on my chest.

Deep down, I suspected she’d run into her old flame—the guy she’d always idolized. And then there was the whole risqué photoshoot. She kept the prints boxed up, but I knocked it over by accident and saw the photos inside. I’d never seen that side of her before. Even when we were dating and went swimming, she never wore a bikini.

Those photos were like a slap—sudden, intimate, and meant for someone else. They weren’t for me. Not anymore.

Putting it all together, I had reason to think my wife was cheating.

At the shop, my mind kept spinning about my wife. I couldn’t just ask her outright. After so many years of marriage, asking something like that would mean I didn’t trust her. Middle-aged couples getting divorced—it’s just a punchline to everyone else. Nobody takes it seriously until it’s you.

At the pet shop, my mind kept spinning over my wife. I couldn’t just ask her outright. After so many years of marriage, asking something like that would mean I didn’t trust her. Middle-aged couples getting divorced—it’s just a punchline to everyone else. Nobody takes it seriously until it’s you.

I pictured myself at the bar with the guys, trying to explain it. They’d laugh, slap my back, tell me to get over it. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t just let it go.

But how could I find out what was going on?

I started replaying our conversations, looking for clues. Every smile, every sigh, every late night at the office. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. I was getting nowhere.

I stayed at the shop until ten. By then, my wife—a financial advisor—would’ve just started work. So I drove straight home.

The house was silent, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. Too quiet. I tiptoed through the rooms, half-expecting to find something out of place. Instead, all I found were dust bunnies and the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the hallway.

I searched the house but only found some old wire transfer slips. Both the sender and receiver were names I didn’t recognize, and the dates went back nearly twenty years. No way she could hide something like that for twenty years. Maybe she’d been quietly helping an old flame all this time, and now that he’d made it big, he’d gotten back in touch. Maybe that Birkin bag was from him.

The idea made my chest ache. Twenty years is a long time to keep a secret. I wondered if I’d ever really known her at all.

I shook my head—maybe my imagination was running wild. After all these years, I’d never heard of my wife having any past relationships. Even when we started dating in college, she hardly ever went back to her hometown. Her daily routine was just work and home.

She was the kind of person who made her own lunch every day, who scheduled dentist appointments months in advance. That’s who she was. Organized. Predictable. If she was hiding something, she was damn good at it.

While I was stewing, a client messaged me:

"Hey, Mr. Preston, my dog is getting food-aggressive. What should I do?"

And now, was my wife... being trained? The thought made my skin crawl.

The hairs on my arms stood up. The connection was weird, but I couldn’t shake it. Was I seeing patterns where there weren’t any, or was something really off?

My eyelid twitched. I immediately messaged that client:

"Hey man, how’s your dog doing?"

I tried to keep my tone casual, but my fingers trembled as I typed. The world suddenly felt a lot smaller and a whole lot stranger.

He replied after a while:

"Great."

Short, almost dismissive. I frowned, staring at the screen, waiting for more.

I hesitated:

"Can I see a picture of your dog? :)"

I added a smiley face to soften the request, hoping he wouldn’t think I was losing it.

He sent a photo of a Doberman, along with a few training videos—it was exactly what I’d taught him!

The Doberman looked happy, obedient, tail wagging in every clip. A good dog. Too good. I watched the videos twice, searching for anything unusual. Nothing. Just a well-trained dog.

I was more confused than ever. If it wasn’t that guy, then what was going on with my wife? Or was I just overthinking things?

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. Maybe I needed a vacation, or at least a good night’s sleep. Yeah, right. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

But that night, when my wife came home, our Alaskan Malamute was acting off. He circled her, barking, like he’d picked up a stranger’s scent. I pretended not to notice and told the dog to hush.

Buddy had never acted like that before. He was our gentle giant, friendly to a fault. Seeing him so on edge made my skin crawl.