Here is the HTML code for the story based on the "Double Life" image. I have written this as a gripping first-person confession.

The Monday Morning Lie

For twenty years, I packed his suitcase and kissed him goodbye. I thought he was flying to Chicago. He was just driving down the street.

The routine was etched into the fabric of our marriage. Every Monday morning at 5:30 AM, the alarm would buzz. My husband, a dedicated "traveling salesman," would shower, dress in his crisp navy suit, grab his leather briefcase, and kiss me on the forehead. "See you Friday, honey," he’d say. For 20 years, I believed him. I believed he was sacrificing his weeknights in lonely hotel rooms to provide for us. I was the supportive wife waiting at home.

But suspicion is a quiet, nagging thing. Last week, it wasn't a text message or a lipstick stain that tipped me off. It was a forgotten receipt for a grocery store that didn't exist in the city he claimed to be visiting. Driven by a gut feeling I couldn't ignore, I slipped a small GPS tracker into the lining of his trunk before he left.

"I watched the blue dot on my phone screen, expecting it to head toward the highway and the airport. Instead, it took a left turn."

My heart hammered against my ribs as I watched him drive. He didn't go to the terminal. He drove three miles, turned into a neighboring subdivision, and pulled into the driveway of a beige two-story house. He was 10 minutes away.

I drove there. I parked down the street, shaking so hard I could barely grip the steering wheel. I watched him walk out the front door, not in his suit, but in jeans and a t-shirt. He was holding the hand of a woman I had never seen. Two children ran out onto the lawn—a boy and a girl—and hugged him. He wasn't just having an affair; he had a second house, a second wife, and three other kids. He has been living a double life since 2004, splitting his week between two families who never knew the other existed.

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