Every morning was chaos—three kids, a messy house, and my husband Ben conveniently busy. I hired Emily, a young babysitter, but something felt off. The kids seemed distant, and Emily always had some excuse. So I hid a camera inside a teddy bear.
What I saw broke me.
Emily wasn’t lazy—she was leaving early. And right after, Ben came home. Their conversation on camera still rings in my head:
Emily: “You picking me up at three?”
Ben: “Yeah. Beth’s home by six. We’ll be done by then.”
Done with what?
The next day, I told Ben I was sick. He panicked and said, “Why don’t you go shopping until six?” That was confirmation enough.
I called Emily’s dad—he had once given me his number in case of emergencies. I told him everything. He was furious and agreed to meet me outside the house at 3 p.m.
We watched Ben walk in like nothing was wrong. Moments later, we burst through the door.
Emily’s dad shouted, “What the hell is going on?!”
Ben froze.
I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “I saw the footage.”
He didn’t even deny it.
I walked out—without looking back.
