I never thought betrayal could shatter my family. We’d been together five years—good, warm years, or so I’d believed. It started like a rom-com: flowers, moonlit walks, sweet nothings. Then came the wedding, and a year later, our son, who we’d welcomed with so much joy.
He was born a bit early, which maybe left him frail—he caught every bug going. I couldn’t go back to work; nursery wasn’t an option. My husband said, “I earn enough. Stay home with him. We’ll figure it out when he starts school.” I trusted him. He seemed solid, dependable. Our life was like so many young families’: him at the office, me at home with our boy. We even stole little weekends—visiting mates or escaping to the countryside. Our mums helped when they could, though they were still working themselves.
Then the pandemic hit. He started working from home, grew snappy, lashing out over nothing. I put it down to stress, the uncertainty. When he went back to the office, things seemed better. He even apologised for his outbursts.
But our son kept getting poorly. One bug after another, till we ended up in hospital for nearly two weeks. My husband called but never visited. His mum said, “He’s the breadwinner—what’s he meant to do in hospital? Catch something? He’s got to work.” I didn’t argue. He *was* keeping us afloat.
Coming home, the flat was spotless—*too* clean. I thought he’d hired a cleaner. Sweet of him, really. He helped with our bags, ordered a takeaway. I assumed he’d missed us.
Then I found my dressing gown in the wash. I hadn’t put it there. Odd, but I brushed it off.
The next day, out with our son, I ran into Karina from downstairs. Our kids are the same age—we’re not close, but we chat. As I turned to leave, she hesitated, then said, “Look, this isn’t my business, but… three days ago, I saw your husband in the lift with some woman. They got off at your floor. I didn’t want to say anything, but—”
I froze. Then it clicked: the gown. The sterile flat. Like a bucket of ice down my back.
When he got home, I didn’t dance around it: “You brought another woman here? While I was in hospital with your son?” He looked at his feet. No denial.
I don’t remember driving to my mum’s. My phone blew up—I ignored it. I was gutted.
When I didn’t answer, he rang my mum. And she… she wouldn’t take sides. “Sort it out yourselves,” she said. I felt so alone.
But his mum? Oh, she had *plenty* to say. She cornered me at the playground, no hello, just: “I thought you were smarter. One mistake, and you’re throwing it all away! He hasn’t left you, hasn’t abandoned his child. So he slipped up. And you just bolt?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. *He* cheated. In *our* home. And *I’m* the problem?
“You let yourself go after the baby, it’s all nappies and no spark. His office is full of pretty girls! He’s only human. So what now? Pretend it never happened. You’ve got a roof, food, your boy. Be grateful.”
I walked away. No energy to fight.
The final blow? My own mum wouldn’t back me. “It’s hard, but think,” she said. “Your son grows up without a dad. And you won’t be happier. Forgiving isn’t forgetting. Just… think again.”
I don’t know how you forgive that. How you pretend. How you share a bed with someone who brought another woman into it while you sat in hospital with his sick child.
I won’t be convenient. I won’t play blind. I’m not made of steel—I’ve got a heart, too.
Now I’m at my mum’s, thinking. I don’t know what comes next. But one thing’s certain: I’m not stepping foot back in that “*clean*” house where he betrayed me.
