My boss was the one who told me my husband was cheating on me.
I was married at the time and working for a small business in Brighton. My boss, a divorced bloke, had a habit of flirting with me far too often for my liking. I was never rude, but he didnt seem to pick up on the hints. I drew the linerepeatedly told him, Look, I have a partner, and youre making things awkward. Everyone can see it. He said he understood, and after that, we carried on like civilised adults.
Then one day, he called me into his office. Door firmly shut. We need to have a personal chat, he said in his best Mr. Serious voice. He asked if my husband was still heading off on his weekend trips. Yes, I replied, eyeing him suspiciously. At which point, he just blurted out:
I saw him with another woman.
Apparently, his assistant manager had gone out for drinks at a London pub, my boss popped in later, and what do they find? My husband, getting rather cosy with a woman. Kissing, in fact. Naturally, I said I didnt believe him. So out comes his phone, and he shows me a video.
The footage looked like it was shot through a sockdark, noisy, with that filmed from behind a potted plant vibe. But, despite the quality, I recognised my husband: the jacket, the awkward dance moves, the unfortunate profile. No doubt about it. I felt white-hot fury, a bit of shame, and this gaping pit of helplessness. I left the office, went straight home, and confronted the man. First, he denied it. Then, when he realised I wasnt backing down, he claimed it was just a mistake. Yet he wouldnt move out.
The next six months were pure hell. I didnt want to be with him anymore, but he bunkered in. The flat was a rental, so he insisted he had as much right as I did to stay. He took to making my life absolutely impossible: blaring music at dawn, inviting random people over without warning, leaving the place looking like a student house after freshers week. Insults and childish jibes peppered our conversations. Every argument ended more bitterly than the last. I could barely sleep and spent my days marinating in anxiety.
One day, I finally checked the tenancy agreement and realised: the lease was up soon. Simple truth hit methis wasnt really my home. I didnt have to carry on suffering for the sake of a few months’ rent. So, I started viewing flats, packed my things, signed a new contract, and moved out. No dramatic farewell. Took what I needed, stepped out, and closed the door on that chapter.
Throughout all this, my boss kept an eye on me. At first, just being supportivechecking if I was alright, asking if I needed, I dont know, a giant cup of tea or a cat. Gradually, messages turned into actual coffee dates. I wasnt looking for anything; I just wanted a bit of peace. He respected that. It was several months before we became more than just workmates having a moan over lattes.
In time, I landed a new jobnothing to do with him, just a better position, fatter paycheque, decent prospects. I left my old job, and our dynamic shifted. Now we were just two people seeing each other, not boss and employee.
Today marks a year since we got together.
My ex-husband has completely vanished from my life. I may have lost a marriage, but Ive gained peaceand quite unexpectedly, a thoroughly decent man.
