For the past week, our home has felt like a warzone. Oliver and I barely speak, avoid eye contact, and only discuss our child’s needs in clipped, emotionless exchanges. It all started with what seemed like a tiny, insignificant accident.
That morning, Oliver left for work as usual. I was tidying up while our little one napped in the cot. Around ten, his phone, left on the bedside table, buzzed repeatedly. I moved to silence it, not wanting to wake the baby—but then my gaze caught the chat name lighting up the screen: *”My Family.”*
A sharp jolt shot through me. *”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.
The chat included Oliver, his mum, dad, and sister. Not me. Yet there I was—*discussed*. Apparently, I was a hopeless homemaker, a clueless mother, and utterly wrong for their son and brother. His mum had written that I fed our child poorly, at the wrong times, the wrong things. That our house was a “tip,” that I always looked “dead on my feet, like I’d been down the mines.” His sister chimed in with snide remarks, despite never having held a baby in her life.
But the worst part? Oliver’s silence. Not one word in my defence. He’d liked their comments, even added laughing emojis to his mother’s sharpest digs. The man I loved, the father of my child, let his family tear me down. And I’d tried so hard—nodding along, biting my tongue, smiling through their critiques just to keep the peace, only to quietly do things my way later.
When Oliver came home that evening, I couldn’t stay quiet.
“I saw 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, accused, raged. Not a word about how *I* felt. No remorse. No understanding.
As I stood there, I barely recognised the man I’d vowed to spend my life with. The one I’d forgiven for late shifts, exhaustion, snapped words. I’d never hidden my phone from him—I had nothing to hide. But he clearly did.
Now, we barely speak. He sleeps on the sofa. Claims *I* broke the trust. But I wonder—who really shattered it? Because I feel the betrayal was mine. They talked, they judged, and he let them. As if I weren’t his wife, but some temporary lodger in *their* family’s life.
I don’t know what happens next. We’ve mentioned divorce—maybe in anger, maybe seriously.
But one thing’s certain: betrayal isn’t always an affair. Sometimes it’s silence when you should’ve spoken up. Sometimes it’s a thumbs-up beneath words that crush someone else’s heart.
Right now, I just need to know—can I ever trust him again? Or is it already too late?
