**A Diary Entry: A Broken Home**
I never imagined betrayal could shatter my family. We’d been together five years—good, warm years, or so I thought. It began like a romantic film: flowers, sweet words, walks under the moonlight. Then came the wedding, and a year later, our son arrived, a joy we’d longed for.
He was born early, though, and his health was fragile. His weak immune system meant constant illness. I couldn’t return to work; nurseries were out of the question. My husband assured me, “I earn enough. Stay home with him. We’ll reassess when he starts school.” I trusted him. He seemed dependable, caring. Our life settled into routine—him at work, me at home with our boy. It felt right. We even stole little weekends away, visiting family or the countryside. Our mums helped when they could.
Then the pandemic hit. He switched to remote work and grew irritable, snapping over trifles—at me, at our son. I blamed stress, fear for his job. When offices reopened, he smoothed things over, even apologised. But our son’s health worsened. One diagnosis after another landed us in hospital for nearly two weeks. My husband called but never visited. His mother said, “He’s the breadwinner. What’s he to do there? Risk infection? He’s got to work.” I didn’t argue.
Returning home, I found the flat spotless—too clean. He’d ordered a deep clean, I assumed. He helped with bags, brought takeaway. I thought he’d missed us.
Then I opened the washing machine. My bathrobe sat inside—unwashed, untouched. Odd. Had I forgotten?
The next day, on a walk with our son, I bumped into Kaitlyn, a neighbour. Our kids played together sometimes. As we parted, she hesitated. “Look, it’s not my place, but… three days ago, I saw your husband in the lift with a woman. They got off at your floor. I couldn’t stay quiet.”
The bathrobe. The sterile flat. Ice flooded my veins.
That evening, I confronted him: “You brought another woman here? While I was in hospital with your son?” He looked down. No denial.
I fled to my mum’s. He called relentlessly—I ignored him. Devastated, I curled into myself. When he couldn’t reach me, he phoned my mother. Her response? “Sort it out yourselves.”
But my mother-in-law stormed into the park where I sat with our boy. No greeting—just fury. “I thought you were smarter!” she spat. “One mistake, and you throw it all away? He didn’t abandon you or the child! Men stray—it happens. Must you be so dramatic?”
I gaped. *He* betrayed *me*. Yet here I stood, the villain.
“You let yourself go,” she sneered. “No spark left. Office girls are everywhere—he’s only human. Be grateful for the roof over your head!”
I walked away. No fight left.
The final blow? My own mother’s counsel: “Think hard. Your son needs his dad. Forgive—not forget—but try again.”
Forgive? Pretend nothing happened? Share a bed with a man who crept another woman into our home while I nursed his sick child?
I won’t be convenient. I won’t be blind.
Now, at my mum’s, I’m piecing myself together. One truth is clear: I’ll never step back into that “clean” house—where my trust was laundered away.
**Lesson**: A roof isn’t worth the cost of your self-respect. Some stains don’t wash out.
