I’ve been a massage therapist for seven years. In that time, I’ve seen all kinds of people walk through my door—tired mothers, overworked businessmen, even the occasional athlete nursing an injury. But yesterday, someone walked in who changed everything.

She was beautiful, with sleek hair and striking red lipstick that made her look effortlessly confident. She smiled at me, her eyes bright and expectant.

“Would you mind taking a picture of me?” she asked, holding out her phone. “I want to send it to my boyfriend before the massage.”

I took her phone and lined up the shot as she fluffed her hair and struck a relaxed pose. As I handed the phone back, she sighed. “Finally, I’m going to relax.”

“Too much stress?” I asked as I prepared the oils.

“Too much!” she exhaled dramatically, then climbed onto the table. As I started working on her shoulders, she continued. “Me and my boyfriend have a… rather rocky relationship. The pressure is killing me, but what don’t we do for love, right?”

I hummed noncommittally, used to the oversharing that sometimes happened when people lay down on the table, vulnerable, the tension in their bodies making them spill their secrets.

Then her phone buzzed beside her, and out of habit, my eyes flicked to the screen. My heart stopped.

The profile picture displayed her in a cozy, intimate embrace with my husband.

I froze, my hands hovering inches above her back. My skin turned cold despite the warm room. My husband. My husband.

She sighed. “Ugh. I’ll answer later.”

I forced a smile and stepped closer. “No, dear, please, answer.”

She looked at me, puzzled, but picked up the phone. “Hey, babe.”

Her voice was soft, affectionate—the way I used to sound when I spoke to him. She was relaxed under my hands, completely unaware of what was about to happen.

I kept massaging as I listened to their conversation, every word sinking into me like knives. She giggled at something he said, murmured something about missing him, and then suddenly, her body jerked.

She gasped. “What the hell did you do?! I CAN’T MOVE!”

Her voice was panicked now, her body rigid.

I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s just a pressure point technique. I do it when my clients are too tense.”

She tried to turn her head, but her muscles refused to cooperate. “What the hell is happening?”

My smile was tight, my voice low. “I’m your boyfriend’s wife.”

Silence. Then a slow, shuddering breath as she realized exactly how deep in trouble she was.

I let the weight of that knowledge settle between us before I continued. “Now, you’re going to listen. Because for the next few minutes, you’re not going anywhere.”

She whimpered. I grabbed a nearby towel and wiped my hands, breathing deeply to steady my own shaking limbs. “How long have you been seeing him?”

She hesitated. I pressed my fingers into another point on her back, making her whimper. “Three months,” she finally croaked.

Three months. I had spent three months making his favorite dinners, washing his clothes, loving him while he snuck out to be with her.

I took another breath. “Did you know he was married?”

“No! I swear!” she cried. “He told me he was single!”

I believed her. The shock, the panic in her voice—it wasn’t the sound of a woman who knew she was caught. It was the sound of a woman who had just realized she’d been played, too.

I released the pressure point, and she gasped, her body jerking as she regained movement. She turned onto her back, staring up at me with wide, terrified eyes.

I met her gaze. “He played both of us. What do you want to do about it?”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she processed my words. Then, slowly, a flicker of something shifted in her eyes. Understanding. Realization. Anger.

Minutes later, she left the studio. I didn’t stop her. She deserved her own confrontation.

That evening, my husband came home to find all his belongings packed neatly by the door. A single sheet of paper sat on the table—a printout of their text messages, which she had graciously forwarded to me.

He looked at me, opening his mouth, but I held up a hand. “Don’t,” I said simply. “She knows. I know. And we’re both done.”

He paled. “She—?”

“She was in my massage chair just this afternoon,” I said, a smile curling my lips. “She left very, very angry.”

I watched as realization dawned in his eyes. And for the first time today, I felt lighter.

Sometimes, karma just needs a little push in the right direction.