I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who’d check her husband’s phone.
But last night, while he was in the shower, I did. I don’t even know what I was looking for—maybe some reassurance that the growing distance between us was just in my head. Maybe I just wanted to see my name in a sweet text. Instead, I saw hers.
A string of messages I’ll never be able to forget.
“Last night was everything. Can’t stop thinking about you.”
My fingers went cold. My heart actually skipped—not in the way it did when he first kissed me, or when he proposed, or when he cried holding our son for the first time. No. This was different. This was like hitting black ice in the middle of your life and realizing, far too late, that you’re not in control anymore.
I’m writing this now while my toddler naps in the other room and my unborn baby presses a heel into my ribcage. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders even though it’s not cold. I think I just need something to hold onto.
I haven’t told him I know. Not yet. I can barely breathe when I look at him. I feel like I’m living in a movie where everyone else has the script and I’ve forgotten my lines. He kissed me this morning. Made coffee. Complained about traffic. Just… carried on.
And I stood there, playing along, pretending that everything was okay.
It’s not.
If you’d asked me a week ago what my life was like, I would’ve told you I was tired but lucky. Our son is two—wild and messy and full of magic. I’m seven months pregnant, waddling around with swollen ankles and lower back pain, but still somehow excited for this next chapter. We’ve been married four years. We don’t fight much. We’ve got a little house, a routine, a rhythm.
Or so I thought.
Now I’m looking around at this life and wondering what’s real and what’s just been propped up, like a movie set. I keep asking myself: Was I blind? Was I stupid? Did I miss the signs?
But the question I can’t shake is this: What now?
If it were just me, I think I would’ve confronted him the moment I saw the texts. I would’ve screamed, cried, demanded answers. But it’s not just me anymore.
It’s me, and a toddler who wakes up crying at 3 a.m. because he dropped his stuffed lion, and a baby girl kicking inside me who hasn’t even seen the world yet.
I’m scared.
I’m scared of being a single mom. Of splitting holidays and birthdays. Of not having enough money. Of navigating court dates and custody and explaining to my kids why Mommy and Daddy don’t live together anymore.
I’m scared that if I stay, I’m teaching my children that love is something you tolerate, that betrayal is something you accept. But I’m also scared that if I leave, I’ll break us all.
Is it worse to raise my kids in a fractured home or in one held together by silence?
I keep playing out scenes in my head.
Me, sitting him down and saying, “I know.”
Him, admitting it with shame. Or worse, denying it.
Me, packing a bag.
Me, staying.
Me, crying on the floor after everyone’s asleep.
Me, feeling strong and proud and free.
Me, missing him.
Me, hating him.
Me, forgiving him?
I can’t tell where my imagination ends and my future begins. Everything feels blurry. I haven’t even eaten today. Just coffee and the sour taste of betrayal in the back of my throat.
I wonder if she knows about me. About us. About the two kids. Did he tell her he was married? Did she care?
I want to hate her. I do, a little. But most of my anger is pointed at him. He made vows. He built this life with me. He helped choose the name we gave our son. He helped paint the nursery walls for this baby just two months ago. And still, he made a choice.
Maybe once. Maybe more than once. I don’t know the details, and honestly, I’m not sure I want them. There’s only so much I can stomach.
People talk about heartbreak like it’s one big event. One big moment of shattering. But this? This is different. This is grief in slow motion. A thousand tiny breaks. The way he still calls me “babe.” The way he didn’t notice I didn’t say it back. The baby socks I folded this morning. The leftover takeout from our Friday night ritual. It all feels haunted now.
I know I need to make a decision. I know I can’t pretend forever.
But I’m not ready to be brave yet.
I’m not ready to give up on the dream I had for my family. I’m not ready to face the lawyer’s office, the daycare costs, the sleepless nights without anyone beside me. I’m not ready to be the strong woman I know my kids will need.
But maybe I don’t have to be ready today.
Maybe today, I can just survive. Just breathe.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll talk to him.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll scream.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll whisper, “Why?”
But today, I’ll sit with this pain. I’ll let myself feel it. Because pretending nothing happened feels worse. Today, I’ll cry into my tea while my toddler naps and my baby kicks and the world outside keeps spinning.
Today, I’ll be honest—with myself, if no one else.
And maybe that’s the first brave thing I’ll do.
