With Him It’s Different With Me, Not Like It Is With Her

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 1

He treated me differently than she did.

Whos that?

Daniels phone lay faceup on the kitchen table, the screen flashing a new message before Kate even realised what she was looking at. Missing you, love. A heart. A kiss. And an unfamiliar name Imogen.

Daniel swivelled from the espresso machine, a flash of irritation flickering in his eyes not surprise, but annoyance, quickly hidden behind his usual mask of relaxed annoyance.

Youre snooping through my phone?
It lit up on its own. Kate lifted the device, swiping to unlock with the motion they both knew. They shared each others passwords. Whos Imogen?

Daniel turned away and pressed a button on the machine.

A colleague.
A colleague sending you missing you, love?

Kate scrolled through the chat, her fingers growing cold with each message she read. Photos. Voice notes. weekend plans Daniel pretended to have at a conference in Manchester. jokes that only the two of them understood. The first message dated back to March; it was now September.

Six months. One hundred and eighty days of Kate making him breakfast, waiting for him after work, dreaming of holidays, believing they were happy.

Daniel, thats half a year of messages.

The espresso machine fell silent. Daniel took a sip from his mug, and Kate, with a detached clarity, noted that her husband seemed perfectly calm.

Kate, dont start.
Not start? She stared at Daniel, searching his familiar face for any hint of remorse or embarrassment. Nothing. Only the fatigue of a man whose morning coffee had been interrupted.

Youve been cheating on me for six months and Im supposed to keep quiet?

Daniel set his mug down, his palm brushing his cheek.

Listen, its complicated. Lets talk tonight; Im running late.

He left, grabbing his briefcase, planting a familiar kiss on her cheek and walking out. The door clicked shut softly, and Kate remained alone in the kitchen.

She replayed the messages over and over, hunting for an explanation. A prank? A misunderstanding? The photographs offered no lies Daniel with an unknown blonde in a restaurant, on a quay, in some flat. Selfies with matching smiles and intertwined fingers.

Kate tried to remember when things had first gone awry. Their morning talks. Shared dinners. Plans to buy a bigger house, perhaps get a dog. Nothing had foreshadowed disaster. Absolutely nothing.

Or perhaps she simply refused to see it.

Anne arrived forty minutes after the call. She burst into the flat, handed Kate a bag of fresh croissants and settled opposite her on the sofa arm.

Tell me.

Kate stumbled through the story, jumping from detail to feeling and back again. Anne listened in silence, her expression growing ever more solemn.

I dont understand, Kate ran her fingers through her hair for the tenth time. Everything was fine. We were happy. Where did this come from?

Anne paused, then asked gently:

Kate, did you notice anything at all? Nothing?

What could I have noticed? He came home, we ate dinner together, we drove out of town on weekends. A normal family!

Right. Anne inhaled deeply, and Kate read the pain building in her friends face. Do you remember how you met?

Kate blinked.

What does that have to do with anything?

Everything. You met three years ago at a company function. You were working in their outsourced accounts department.

And?

Daniel was married then, to Margaret. You were two years his lover while he was still married. Then he divorced and married you.

Kates mouth opened, then shut. Her mind swirled, and the croissants suddenly smelled sickly sweet.

Thats different, she managed. We loved each other. He said his marriage to Margaret was dead long ago.

Annes eyes hardened.

He cheated on his wife for two years. With you. Why did you think hed be faithful now?

Because this is different! Kate leapt up, clutching herself. Because he chose me. Daniel changed, Anne. When we wed, he really changed.

Anne shook her head.

He didnt change, Kate. Hes just you know? Daniel loves only himself. Everything else is a setpiece: wife, lover, job. He takes what he wants, when he wants. Faithfulness is boring to him. Limits are for other people.

You dont know him.
I know men like him. Anne reached for Kates hand. Remember how you dreamed hed leave Margaret? How you waited for his call, convinced yourself that soon youd finally be together?

Kate fell silent. Of course she remembered: every sleepless night, every lastminute cancelled dinner, every lie she told friends to cover up their meetings. Two years as a mistress humiliating, painful, but she endured, waited, believed.

You got what you wanted, Anne continued, gentle but ruthless. He divorced, married you. And you know what happened? The role of mistress became vacant. Daniel cant live without that thrill, that secret. Youre now his legal wife and boring.

Im not boring!

Kate sank back onto the sofa. Annes words were harsh, yet something inside her finally accepted the truth.

Since April Daniel had been traveling for work almost every fortnight, sometimes more often. She chalked up the late nights, the endless meetings, the corporate events she wasnt invited to.

And the bedroom. Kate recalled the recent months painfully Daniel would come home exhausted, plant a kiss on her forehead, turn his back to the wall. She blamed stress, age, anything but the truth.

I need to see it with my own eyes, Kate whispered.

Spying on her husband proved neither dignified nor difficult. Kate took a few days off sick and began to tail Daniel after work. On the second day luck turned.

He left the office at seven, got into his car, but didnt drive home. Kate followed in a hired cab, feeling like a shabby detective. He parked outside a café in the city centre, and five minutes later a young woman slipped into the passenger seat.

She was about twentyfive, maybe twentysix, a blonde with a trendy bob and a confident smile the Imogen from the messages. Kate recognised her from the photos.

Daniel took Imogens hand, lifted it to his lips, whispered something, and she laughed, throwing back her head. The gesture was one Kate herself had used three years earlier.

The same restaurant. Kate recognised the sign. Daniel had taken Imogen here on their first date, claiming it was their special place.

They sat at the same table by the window. Daniel ordered, his gestures familiar, perhaps recommending the duck breast and the Eton mess for dessert. He talked about his childhood in Leeds and his dream of travelling the world, his eyes fixed on Imogen with that hungry, promising look.

The scene replayed down to the smallest detail. Daniel didnt bother inventing a new script. Why change a routine that worked?

Kate returned home and waited. He arrived at eleven, reeking of foreign perfume, sweet and floral, nothing like hers.

We need to talk.

Daniel sighed, hung his coat on the back of a chair.

What now, Kate? Im tired
I saw you today.

He froze for a heartbeat, then shrugged.

So you were watching.
Answer me.
Yes, I was with Imogen. He lounged back, legs crossed. It means nothing, Kate. Listen. He leaned forward, putting on that sincere, convincing look shed believed for three years. I love you. Youre my wife. Imogen is just an adventure. It doesnt affect us.
Did you tell Margaret the same nonsense?

Daniel stammered.

Thats different.

Is it? Kate sat opposite him. You cheated on her with me. Now you cheat on me with her. Whats the difference?

Ive changed, Kate. After the wedding I really wanted to be faithful. But He spread his arms. It just happened. Ill end things with Imogen. I promise. From today on, its only you.

The promise sounded rehearsed, smooth. Kate watched her husband, seeing the void behind the polished words. The habit of lying had become second nature, selfishness cloaked in charm. Daniel could not love anyone but himself.

No.
No what?
I dont need your vows.

Daniel frowned.

Kate, dont dramatise. Every couple goes through this. Well get through it.

Kate shook her head. Her chest felt empty, cold, yet for the first time in a long while it was clear.

You wont change. Never. Because it isnt a problem for you. Its normal. Wife at home, lover on the side. Convenient.
Youre talking nonsense.
Im telling the truth. Kate stood. Three years ago I thought I was special, that youd be different for me. I was just another replacement for Margaret!

She left for Anne that evening.

The divorce took three months.

Daniel didnt resist. By November he had officially moved in with Imogen Kate learned this from mutual acquaintances. The new couple posted cheerful photos with hashtags about love and destiny, planning a wedding.

Anne showed Kate one of the posts.

Look. He says Im the only one hes ever truly loved.

Kate turned the phone away.

I dont want to see.
Are you angry?
No. And it was true. I feel sorry for her. In two years shell be sitting with a friend, crying just as I did.

Anne hugged her.

Does it feel better?

Kate thought. It didnt. But something inside finally stopped clinging to the illusion, to the man she had imagined and loved.

You know whats the most foolish? she said with a weak smile. I knew from the start. I was his mistress. I saw his lies to his wife. I heard the stories he invented. Yet I convinced myself it would be different with me.
You fell in love.
I was foolish and blind. Those are not the same.

Anne fell silent.

And now?

Kate stared out the window.

Now Ill look for someone who doesnt need to be reshaped. A man who is faithful from the outset. Do they even exist?

Rain began to tap against the glass. Kate watched the droplets slide down, and for the first time in months she didnt think of Daniel, their meeting, their wedding, their shared plans.

She didnt know that a year later she would marry a man who never looked elsewhere. Two years later they would have a daughter, then a son. Kates family would grow stronger each day, and she would finally understand what a marriage built on genuine love feels like.

My Story Is Different: My Mother-in-Law Knew Her Son Was Cheating on Me With the Neighbour, and She Hid It From Me—The Truth Came Out When She Got Pregnant and The Family Could No Longer Cover It Up. After Six Years of Marriage, Everything Fell Apart. We Lived Together, Worked Together, Had No Children Yet—We Weren’t Perfect, But I Believed We Were a Family. Almost Every Sunday, We’d Have Lunch With His Parents; I Helped in the Kitchen and Felt Part of Their Home. I Never Imagined That People Could Sit Around The Table, Look Me In The Eye, and Hide Something Like This. The Neighbour Was Always Around—She Wasn’t Just ‘the Woman Next Door,’ She Was Practically Family. She’d Stop By Often, Sometimes Unannounced, Sometimes Staying For Dinner, Sometimes Late Into The Evening—And I Never Suspected Anything, Because I Believed Family Had Boundaries. My Mother-in-Law Always Defended Her—If Anyone Criticized Her, She’d Justify It. If She Needed Help, My Mother-in-Law Was First To Offer. As For My Husband—He Was Always ‘Available.’ I Saw It All, But Convinced Myself Not To Think Badly. A Few Months Before Everything Exploded, I Started To Feel Something Was Off—My Husband Was More Distant, Always ‘Busy’ With Family or Work. I Never Checked Up On Him, But My Mother-in-Law Started Acting Cold, Distant, Less Kind—Almost Guilty. The Day The Truth Came Out, I Wasn’t Ready—His Aunt Called and, After Small Talk, Asked: “Are You Still Living Together?” Then Quietly: “Do You Not Know Anything…about the Neighbour?” That’s When I Felt A Chill— She Told Me Directly: The Neighbour Was Pregnant, And The Father Was My Husband. It Had Become An ‘Open Secret’ In The Family, Who’d Been Trying For Months To ‘Manage The Situation,’ But No One Dared Tell Me. I Sat On The Edge Of The Bed Waiting; When My Husband Came Home, I Asked Him Directly. He Didn’t Deny It—He Just Hung His Head: “It Wasn’t Planned…” “How Long?” “More Than A Year.” I Asked Who Knew— The Worst Blow: “Mum’s Known For Months.” The Next Day, I Confronted My Mother-in-Law: “Why Didn’t You Tell Me?” She Was Calm, No Tears, No Trembling—Just Justified Herself: “I Wanted To Avoid A Scene. Thought He’d Fix It With You.” Her ‘Protecting’ Me Was Actually Protecting Herself and Her Son. I Realised: I’d Never Been Protected—Just Convenient. Everyone Had Deceived Me. The Family Tried To ‘Manage’ It, Tell Me Not To Overreact, Not To Be ‘Radical’—As If My Reaction Was The Problem. I Signed The Divorce Papers. The Neighbour Stayed With Her Mother For A While; My Mother-in-Law Stopped Speaking To Me. My Ex Became A Father With Her. I Was Alone—Not Just Without A Husband, But Without The Family I Thought I Had. The Worst Was Not Just The Affair, But The Collective Betrayal. I Signed The Divorce With The Weight Of Not Only My Husband’s Betrayal, But His Entire Family’s. For Six Years, I’d Joined Them Every Sunday, Cooked, Laughed, Celebrated, Thinking They Loved Me. But They Looked Me In The Eye, Knowing, Staying Silent, Protecting Him—not Me. My Mother-in-Law Didn’t Just Betray Me When She Found Out—She Betrayed Me Every Time She Hugged Me And Said “Everything’s All Right,” While Her Son Was Having A Child With Another. What Hurts More Than Infidelity: You Can Survive A Partner’s Betrayal. But The Betrayal Of An Entire ‘Family Table’—That Changes You Forever. ❓ Question for You: What Do You Think—If Your Partner’s Family Knows You’re Being Lied To And Cheated On, But Stays Silent, Are They Complicit Or Is It ‘None Of Their Business’? What Would You Do In My Place?

My Husband Invited His Ex to Celebrate New Year’s Eve with Us — That Was His Mistake Everything began two weeks before New Year’s Eve. He came home with a guilty yet determined look, the kind that doesn’t ask, but simply states: “She called… She said our son wants to spend New Year with his father. They’ll be coming over. Just for one night. We’ll sit at the table, that’s all. I bought him a present… You don’t mind, do you?” I did mind. I always did. But what did my feelings matter? Every time I tried to gently suggest: “Couldn’t you meet them in a café?” “Or stop by at theirs to say hello?” “Or just take your son out for a walk during the day?” …I hit the same brick wall. The wall of manipulation, guilt, and “you don’t understand me.” “What do you want… for my son to hate me? To think I have a new family where there’s no room for him? He’s at a difficult age. He needs to feel I haven’t abandoned him!” He said it as if I was asking him to abandon his child in the woods. And again… I gave in. Because I loved him. Because I believed that someday, he’d stop. And so… December 31st arrived. From the morning, I was up on my feet — running a marathon. I scrubbed our home until it sparkled, knowing she’d spot the smallest speck of dust on the highest shelf. Then, I cooked. I wanted everything to be perfect: A salad with my grandmother’s recipe — the one everyone always praises. Another salad — for which I traipsed through three shops to find the right ingredients. And homemade meat jelly — my husband’s favourite. Not to impress anyone. But because I didn’t want to hear: “Oh, can’t you even do that…” She always found something to criticise. They arrived around nine. She — icy, elegant, expensive, cold. Her gaze made you feel lacking without saying a word. Their teenage son — a carbon copy of her in every expression. He greeted his father respectfully, barely nodded at me, and crashed onto the sofa with his phone and headphones. She immediately began her “inspection”: “Oh… is this rug still here? I told you, it’s not practical.” “It’s practical — and warm…” I tried calmly. “Warm, yes. But style is another thing entirely, isn’t it?” She said it as if my taste was a crime. Then came the food: Here — “too much mayo.” There — “something’s not fresh.” Then the line that always pierced me: “My son doesn’t eat that. Young people have different tastes.” And then their son, not lifting his eyes from his phone: “Yeah, it’s disgusting. Buy some crisps instead.” My husband… in these moments, vanished. A shadow, pouring her wine. Smiling awkwardly. Trying to joke with his son and getting monosyllabic responses. And the worst part? He pretended not to hear how they humiliated me. His tactic was clear: No drama. Let the evening pass. Keep up appearances. So I sat there — smiling, silent, the perfect hostess… Externally. But inside, something screamed. I wasn’t his wife. Not his beloved. Not his partner. Just the help, serving a family spectacle that wasn’t mine. Then came the moment that killed me every year. Five minutes before midnight, the TV went on. Everyone sat “ceremoniously,” like actors in a play. She nudged my glass aside and put hers close to his. The bells rang. Everyone stood. My husband looked at the screen obediently. And in the moment when he, as the head of our home, should propose a toast… …she raised her glass. Her eyes were “accidentally” moist. She looked straight at him — deeply, personally — and said: “I want to raise a glass… to us. Because, no matter what, we are still a family. For our son.” That was when I saw it all. How he blushed. How he looked down, then back up at her. How he smiled — guilty, but soft. Not a guest’s smile. A smile for a woman whose past with you still breathes. And the truth hit me like a slap: I am not his wife in this scene. I am background. After midnight — at 00:10 — they were chatting lively. She sat by his side as if it was naturally hers. She touched his shoulder in a “friendly” way. Shared how their son was doing, whom he was meeting, what was happening “in their circles.” He nodded, still refusing to meet my eyes. Their son reached across the table for more salad — as if I didn’t exist. At exactly 00:15, I got up. I’m not sure how, but I stood in a way that made everyone fall silent. I went to the hall, put on my coat, boots, took my bag. Then he realised: “What are you doing?! Where are you going?!” I looked at him calmly. No tears, no hysteria. Just truth. “Your family is complete tonight. My place isn’t at this table. I’m going to celebrate my New Year… with a friend.” She looked surprised — then her eyes flashed with a hint of satisfaction. Their son snorted. My husband turned pale. “What are you talking about?! Come back! It’s the holidays!” I nodded lightly. “For you, yes. For me, my holiday starts now. And it will be without ‘guests’ who make me invisible. Just please, clean up after yourselves tomorrow — the dishes, the floor, the decorations. You’re a family. And there’s no free maid in this house anymore.” I turned. “Happy New Year.” And walked out, without looking back. Outside, it was cold. The frost hit my face, waking me up for good. Fireworks sliced the sky. I took out my phone and messaged my friend: “I’m on my way. See you in 20 minutes.” I parked in a neighbouring area. Walked through the snow and felt the years of humiliation… melting away. I hadn’t run. I had left — of my own free will. Left them — under the fairy lights and empty toasts — to play at their “happy family” act. My New Year began here — on a quiet, cold street, with freedom. For the first time, I wasn’t a guest at someone else’s celebration. I was the author of my own life. There were hard conversations afterwards. Many truths. Many silences. And a month later… we split up. He went back to his past. As if that night was the scene he’d always wanted to play out. But life punishes weakness its own way. That “second chance” he thought he’d build on guilt and habit… didn’t last long. It fell apart. And me? I survived the hardest winter of my life. And afterwards, I gave myself something no one could take away. I took a holiday, flew with a friend to a place where it’s summer and the sea doesn’t ask questions. There, I laughed. There, I found myself again. There, I met someone who never made me feel “unnecessary.” Since then, celebration isn’t a date. Celebration is the feeling of being loved first — not after someone’s past. ❓What do you think? When a man puts his ex before his current partner — is it love, or just fear of being alone?