It was a regular Saturday. I was outside, knee-deep in weeds, enjoying the sun when I saw Dylan, my neighbor’s son, walking up the driveway. He was nine, maybe ten, and usually confident. But today, he looked shy, hands in pockets, eyes down.

“Hi, Ms. Taylor,” he mumbled, standing a few feet away.

I wiped my hands and smiled. “Hey, Dylan! Everything okay?”

He shifted awkwardly. “Uh, can I swim in your pool for a bit?”

I was surprised. Dylan had never asked before, but I figured he was just bored. His mom, Lisa, often left him alone.

“Of course! You know you’re welcome anytime,” I said, glancing at the pool. “It’s warm out. Want some lemonade?”

“No, thanks,” he replied with a small smile.

As he laid his towel down, I felt a strange knot in my stomach but brushed it off. I went inside to get lemonade anyway. When I stepped back outside, I caught him taking off his shirt.

That’s when everything changed.

I froze. The glass slipped from my hand, shattering at my feet. On Dylan’s back was a familiar birthmark—a large, irregular shape just below his shoulder blade. It was identical to my husband’s. My mind raced; I felt trapped in a nightmare.

“Dylan,” I called, my voice shaky.

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“That mark… how long have you had it?”

He blinked, confused. “My mom says I’ve had it since I was a baby. Why?”

Panic clawed at me. “Just… curious,” I managed.

He shrugged and splashed around, oblivious to my turmoil. I turned away, needing answers but unsure how to get them.

Later that evening, I paced the living room. My husband was in the kitchen, unaware.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah… just thinking,” I replied, heart racing.

When he went to shower, I snatched his comb and pulled a few strands of hair, stuffing them into a bag just as he returned.

The next morning, Dylan asked to swim again, and while he distractedly played, I took some hairs from his towel. Guilt gnawed at me, but I had to know.

Days later, sitting at the kitchen table with the DNA results, my heart pounded. I opened the envelope—99.9% match.

The betrayal hit me hard, but I wasn’t going to crumble. I wanted him to feel the shock I felt.

I decided to host a neighborhood BBQ, inviting both Lisa and my husband. They arrived without knowing the other was coming. I played the perfect wife, waiting for the right moment.

As we sat outside, I served food, my heart racing. I took a deep breath and said, “I got DNA results back recently—something interesting came up.”

Silence fell. I watched my husband’s face drain of color. He knew.

Lisa’s fork clattered. “W-What are you talking about?” she stammered.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Lisa.”

My husband’s hand tightened around his drink. He was speechless.

I stood up, my voice steady. “Pack your things. I’m keeping the house, and I’ve already spoken to a lawyer.”

Panic filled his eyes. I added, “I recorded this entire conversation.”

Within a week, he was gone—no house, no family. Lisa moved away, ashamed. Dylan was innocent in this, so I set up a trust fund for him.

In the end, it wasn’t just karma that got him. It was me.

As I watched him drive away for the last time, I felt peace.

His last words were, “Taylor… how could you?”

I smiled. “How could I? You tell me.”