I never thought betrayal could tear my family apart. We’d been together five years—good, warm years, or so I’d believed. It started like a rom-com: compliments, flowers, moonlit walks. Then came the wedding. A year later, our son arrived, a joy we’d both longed for.
He was born a bit early, though, and maybe that left its mark. His immune system was weak, and he was often ill. Because of that, I never went back to work. We agreed nursery wasn’t for him—he wouldn’t cope. So I stayed home, dedicating myself to him and our family. My husband said, *”I earn enough. Stay home, look after our boy. We’ll figure things out when he starts school. It’ll all work out.”*
I trusted him. He seemed solid, caring. We settled into life like any young family—him at work, me at home with our son. It felt right. Sometimes we’d take little breaks, visit friends or go to the countryside. Our mums helped out—both still working but never saying no.
Then the pandemic hit. My husband started working from home. He grew snappy, lashing out over the smallest things—at me, even at our boy. I understood—stress, exhaustion, worrying about work. We were all on edge. When he went back to the office, things seemed to improve. He even apologised for his outbursts.
But our son kept getting sick. One diagnosis followed another, and soon we were in hospital for nearly two weeks. My husband called, checked in, but never visited. His mum said, *”He’s the breadwinner—what’s he supposed to do at the hospital? Catch something? He needs to work.”* I didn’t argue. It made sense—he brought in the money. The hospital had everything we needed.
When we got home, the flat was spotless—too clean, actually. I figured he’d hired a cleaner. It felt sweet, like he’d missed us. He helped with our bags, ordered takeaway.
Then, that evening, I found my dressing gown in the washing machine. I hadn’t put it there. Odd, but maybe I’d forgotten.
The next day, my son and I went for a walk, and on the bench outside, I ran into Karen, a neighbour. We’re not close, but our kids are the same age. We chatted, and as we were about to leave, she stopped me. *”Sorry, it’s none of my business, but… three days ago, I saw your husband in the lift with some woman. They got off on your floor. I didn’t want to say anything, but I can’t stay quiet.”*
At first, I didn’t get it. Then I remembered the gown, the unnatural cleanliness, and it hit me like ice water.
When my husband came home, I didn’t wait. *”Did you bring another woman here? While your son and I were in hospital?”*
He looked down. No denial. I don’t even remember getting to my mum’s. My phone rang nonstop—I ignored it. I was shattered.
When he couldn’t reach me, he called my mum. And she… she wouldn’t take sides. Said we needed to work it out ourselves. I was alone with the hurt.
But my mother-in-law? She got involved. Showed up at the playground where I was with my son and launched in: *”I thought you were smarter. One mistake, and you throw it all away! He hasn’t abandoned you or the baby. So he slipped up. And where do you go? Pack your bags and run!”*
I stood there, stunned. *He* cheated. In *our* home. And *I* was the problem?
*”You let yourself go after the baby, always with him, no spark. And his office is full of pretty women! He’s only human. So what now? Pretend it never happened. You’ve got a roof, food, a child. Be grateful.”*
I didn’t reply. Just walked away. No energy left to fight.
The final straw? Even my own mum didn’t back me. *”It’s hard, but think,”* she said. *”Your son grows up without a dad. And you won’t be any happier. Forgiving isn’t forgetting. Give it another go.”*
I don’t get how you forgive that. How you pretend. How you stay with someone who brought another woman into your bed while you sat in hospital with his sick child.
I won’t be the convenient one. The blind one. I’m not made of steel. I’ve got a heart too.
Now I’m at my mum’s. Thinking. No idea what to do next. But one thing’s clear—I’m not going back to that *”clean”* house where he betrayed me.
