At first, it was just a nuisance—a black Camry kept parking in my assigned spot. Each time, the driver left a polite

note with a number. When I called, he always moved the car without complaint or explanation. Odd, but harmless—or so I thought.

It kept happening, always on my worst days. The man, always in the same hoodie and hat, would appear

briefly and drive off. My wife Amy brushed it off, even joking it was “sweet.” But something didn’t sit right.

Then one rainy Saturday, I spotted the Camry outside a grocery store and followed it. What I saw

stopped me cold—Amy was with him. Laughing. Holding his hand. She looked happier than she had in months.

I followed them back to our building. He parked—in my spot. Left the usual note. Then drove off.

That’s when it hit me: the notes weren’t apologies. They were signals. Amy had orchestrated the whole thing. When I called, it told him to leave.

I walked in on them minutes later, and my world cracked open. What I thought was a parking

inconvenience was a cover for betrayal—one carefully hidden in plain sight.

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