For a week now, our home has felt like a warzone. Oliver and I haven’t spoken, avoided eye contact, and only exchanged the bare minimum about our child. Even those conversations were clipped and cold. And it all started with what seemed like a tiny accident.
That morning, Oliver left for work as usual. I was tidying up while our little one napped in his cot. Around ten, his phone, left on the bedside table, buzzed repeatedly. I went to silence it so it wouldn’t wake the baby, but my eyes caught the chat name lighting up the screen: “My Family.”
It hit me like a bolt of lightning. “My Family”? Why had I never heard of this group? Me—his wife, the mother of his child—wasn’t part of it? My stomach twisted. Curiosity got the better of me. I opened it. And instantly regretted it. But it was too late.
The chat was Oliver, his mum, dad, and sister. I wasn’t included. But I *was* the topic. Apparently, I was a hopeless homemaker, a clueless mum, and all wrong for their son and brother. His mother complained I fed our child the wrong things, at the wrong times, in the wrong way. She said our house was a “pigsty” and that I always looked “run ragged, like I’d been down a coal mine.” His sister chimed in with snide remarks, despite never having so much as held a baby.
The worst part? Oliver’s silence. Not a single word in my defence. He liked their comments, even replied with laughing emojis. The man I loved, the father of my child, let his family tear me apart. And I’d tried so hard. Smiled politely, nodded along with his mother to keep the peace, then quietly did things my way. I never wanted drama—just to belong.
When Oliver came home that evening, I couldn’t stay quiet.
“I read the chat,” I said, staring straight at him.
He went pale, then exploded. “You went through my phone?! That’s private! How dare you?”
He shouted, blamed, raged. Not a word about *my* feelings. No apology. No understanding.
Standing there, I couldn’t believe this was the man I’d planned a life with. The one I’d had a child for. The one I’d forgiven for late shifts, grumpiness, exhaustion. I’d never hidden my phone from him—I had nothing to hide. But he clearly did.
Since then, we’ve barely spoken. He sleeps on the sofa. Says trust is broken. But I wonder—by him or me? Because I feel *I’m* the one who was betrayed. Talked about, judged, and left unheard. Like I’m not his wife, not family—just some temporary lodger in his life.
I don’t know what’s next. We’ve mentioned divorce. Maybe in anger. Maybe for real.
But one thing’s certain: betrayal isn’t always an affair. Sometimes it’s staying silent when you should’ve spoken up. Sometimes it’s liking a cruel joke that breaks someone’s heart.
Right now, I just need to know—can I ever trust him again? Or is it already too late?
