**Diary Entry**
I never imagined betrayal could shatter my family like this. We’d been married five years—good years, or so I thought. It all began like a romantic film: flowers, moonlit walks, whispered compliments. Then came the wedding, and a year later, our son. We were overjoyed when he arrived, though he was born early. That left him delicate, prone to illness, so I stayed home to care for him. My husband insisted, “I earn enough. Look after our boy. We’ll reassess when he starts school.”
It felt right at the time. He was steady, dependable. I cooked; he worked. Weekends were for quick trips to the countryside or visits to family. His parents helped when they could—busy, but never too busy for their grandson.
Then the pandemic hit. Working from home frayed his nerves. He snapped over little things—a misplaced toy, a late dinner. I chalked it up to stress. When offices reopened, he apologised for his outbursts, and life seemed to steady. But our son kept falling ill. One diagnosis followed another until we were admitted to hospital for two weeks. My husband called but never visited. His mother said, “He’s the breadwinner. What use is he in a hospital? He could catch something.” I didn’t argue. Money kept the roof over our heads.
Returning home, the flat was spotless—unnaturally so. I assumed he’d hired a cleaner. He’d even ordered takeaway, helped unpack. For a moment, I thought: *He missed us.*
Then I found my dressing gown in the washer. Odd—I hadn’t put it there. The next day, I ran into our neighbour, Charlotte, at the playground. Our sons played while we chatted. As I turned to leave, she hesitated. “Look, it’s none of my business, but… Three days ago, I saw your husband in the lift with another woman. They got off on your floor. I couldn’t stay quiet.”
The pieces clicked. The sterile flat. The gown. Ice flooded my veins.
That evening, I confronted him. “Did you bring another woman into our home while I was in hospital with your son?” He didn’t deny it. Just stared at the floor. I ended up at my mum’s, ignoring his calls. Devastated.
When I wouldn’t answer, he rang my mother. Her response? “Sort it out yourselves.” No support. Just silence.
His mother, though—she had plenty to say. Cornering me at the park, she scoffed, “I thought you were smarter. One mistake, and you throw it all away? He hasn’t abandoned you or the boy. Men stray—it happens! You’ve let yourself go since the baby. Office girls are everywhere. Be grateful you’ve got a roof and food. Pretend it never happened.”
I walked away. No energy to fight.
The final blow? My own mother siding with them. “It’s hard, but think,” she urged. “Your son needs his father. Will you really be happier alone? Forgiving isn’t forgetting. Try again.”
Try again? With a man who brought another woman into our bed while I nursed his sick child? No. I won’t play the fool. I’m not made of stone.
Now I’m at Mum’s, weighing my next move. But one thing’s certain: I won’t step foot back in that ‘clean’ house—or the lie it stood for.
**Lesson:** Some betrayals cut too deep. And sometimes, the people who should stand by you leave you standing alone. But that doesn’t mean you stay where you’re not valued.
