**Wednesday, 15th March**
I never imagined betrayal could shatter my world like this. Five years of marriage—good, warm years, or so I thought. It began like a proper love story: flowers, moonlit walks, whispered compliments. Then came the wedding, and a year later, our son arrived, bringing us so much joy.
He was born a bit early, and perhaps that left its mark—his immune system weakened, prone to illness. Going back to work became impossible. We agreed nursery wasn’t right for him; he wouldn’t cope. So I stayed home, dedicating myself to him and our family. My husband assured me, *”I earn enough. Stay home, look after our boy. When he starts school, we’ll reassess. It’ll be fine.”*
I believed him. He seemed steady, dependable. Life fell into a rhythm—him at the office, me at home with our son. It felt… normal. We even managed little escapes now and then, visiting family or countryside walks. The grandparents helped when they could, though they still worked themselves.
Then came the pandemic. My husband switched to remote work—and with it, his temper frayed. The smallest thing set him off, snapping at me or our boy. I told myself it was stress, job anxieties. We were all on edge. When offices reopened, things *seemed* to settle. He even apologised for his outbursts.
But our son kept falling ill. One diagnosis blurred into another until we landed in hospital for nearly a fortnight. My husband called, asked after us—but never visited. His mother said, *”He’s the breadwinner. What’s he to do in a hospital? Risk catching something? His job’s to provide.”* I didn’t argue. He *was* keeping us afloat.
Coming home, the flat was spotless. *Too* spotless. I thought he’d hired a cleaner. Sweet of him—he even helped with our bags, ordered takeaway. For a moment, I felt cherished.
Then that evening, rummaging through the laundry, I found my dressing gown in the machine. Odd—I hadn’t washed it. Maybe I’d forgotten?
The next day, while out with our son, I bumped into Karina from downstairs. Our boys are the same age—we’re not close, but we chat. As we parted, she hesitated. *”Look, this isn’t my business, but… Three days ago, I saw your husband in the lift with a woman. They got out on your floor. I didn’t want to say anything, but—”*
At first, it didn’t register. Then I remembered the gown. The sterile cleanliness. Ice flooded my veins.
When he came home, I didn’t wait. *”You brought another woman here? While our son was in hospital?”*
He looked down. No denial needed. I don’t recall reaching my mother’s flat. My phone rang endlessly—I ignored it. I was hollow.
When I didn’t answer, he rang Mum. And she… she said she *”wouldn’t take sides”*, that we should *”work it out”*. I was alone with the wreckage.
But his mother *did* intervene. Cornered me at the playground, no pleasantries: *”I thought you had more sense. One mistake, and you toss everything? He hasn’t left you, hasn’t abandoned his child! Men slip up. But you—packing up like a drama queen!”*
I stood there, stunned. *He* betrays me—in *our* home—and *I’m* the fool?
*”You let yourself go after the baby, always buried in nappies. At his office? Gorgeous women everywhere. He’s only human. So what now? Pretend it never happened. You’ve a roof, food, a child. Be grateful.”*
I walked away. No energy to fight.
The final blow? Even my own mother didn’t stand by me. *”It’s hard, but think,”* she said. *”Your son without a father. And will you really be happier? Forgiving isn’t forgetting. Just… think again.”*
I don’t know how to forgive *this*. How to share a bed with a man who dragged some woman into it while I sat in a hospital with his sick child.
I won’t be convenient. I won’t be blind. I’m not made of stone—I’ve a heart, too.
Now I’m at Mum’s, weighing it all. But one thing’s certain: I’m not stepping back into that *”clean”* flat where my trust was filthied.
