The Roof That Didn’t Exist
I used to laugh at people who snooped on their partners. Thought, If you need to spy, the relationship’s already over.
I trusted Rick completely. When he said he was helping his brother Stuart with roof repairs every evening after work, I thought, How sweet. How responsible. Even Stuart came by one day and said, “Yeah, I’ll be picking Rick up later — we’ve got a lot to finish before it rains.”
It sounded perfectly reasonable.
Until the day I ran into Heather — Stuart’s wife — at the grocery store. We weren’t exactly close. A few polite smiles, small talk during holidays, that was it. But this time, she walked straight toward me like she had a mission.
“Hey… tell me something,” she said, frowning. “Is my Stuart really helping you guys with your roof repairs?”
I froze mid-reach for a carton of milk. “Wait, WHAT? I thought Rick was helping you with your roof repairs!”
Her jaw hit the floor. She stared at me. “No… Stuart said Rick needed help with your house. Even asked me to let him go every evening so they could finish faster.”
And just like that… everything tilted.
We stood in silence, processing the very obvious conclusion: there was no roof.
The next evening, we decided to follow them.
Heather parked a few cars back from Stuart’s truck. I felt ridiculous, crouching behind the dashboard like a wannabe spy, but adrenaline was drowning my shame.
The men left our neighborhood and headed across town. But instead of pulling up to a hardware store… or a house with a broken roof…
They parked in front of a shiny new building.
Steel, glass, upscale — the kind of place that looked like it charged \$18 for a coffee and a lecture on NFTs.
We watched them walk in, laughing like schoolboys.
Heather turned to me. “Let’s go.”
I swallowed. “Wait, go go? As in follow them inside?”
She was already out of the car.
The building turned out to be a private poker club. A secretive, invite-only “man cave” for grown men who never stopped wanting to feel important.
We slipped inside behind another group and found them immediately.
Rick and Stuart.
Sitting at a velvet poker table.
With drinks in hand.
And two women on their laps.
Not waitresses. Not friends.
Definitely not roofers.
Rick saw me first. His eyes bulged like a man watching his life explode in slow motion. He tried to jump up — knocked over his drink doing it. Stuart wasn’t far behind, stammering and turning bright red as Heather marched up and slapped a hand flat on the table.
“You two have been doing this every night?!” she hissed. “While we sat at home thinking you were covered in tar and shingles?”
I didn’t say a word.
I just pulled a photo from my purse — the one I’d printed this afternoon, of our actual leaking roof — and set it in front of Rick.
“Thought you might want to know what a real roof looks like,” I said coldly. “Since you’ve apparently forgotten.”
Rick came home to an empty house the next day.
I left a note:
If you wanted poker and women, you should’ve just asked for a divorce instead of an alibi.
As for Heather?
She changed the locks.
And the name on the joint account.
Funny thing is, neither of us thought we were the “spy” types.
Turns out, all it takes… is a lie dressed like a shingle.