Jealousy Consumed Me: The Moment I Saw My Wife Step Out of Another Man’s Car, I Lost Control and Destroyed My Life

Author Mria McNillanReading 5 min

I stood by the window, fists clenched, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst. The room was dead silent, yet my mind replayed a single question: why was she taking so long?
The wall clock ticked loudly, each second a reminder that it was already too latefar too late.
Then the headlights cut through the darkness, bathing the street in light.
A sleek black car pulled up directly in front of the house. I held my breath. A man sat behind the wheeltall, confident, a stranger to me.
The passenger door swung open, and she stepped out.
Something inside me shattered.
She smiled, a casual grin that sent a chill down my spine. Leaning toward the window, she whispered to the driver, and he laughed. He laughed.
She closed the door and walked calmly back toward the house.
My whole body tightened.
Who was that man? How long had this been happening? How could I have been so naïve?
She entered, tossed her bag onto the table without a hint of concern.
Who was he? I asked, voice strained.
She paused, eyes narrowed. Who are you asking about?
The man in the car. Who is he?
She sighed irritably, as if tired of answering ridiculous questions.
Its Alejandro, dont start. It was Javier, Martas husband. He drove me home because it was late. Are we really going to argue about this?
I couldnt hear her anymore.
My thoughts spun like a vortex, my blood boiled.
Then my hand rose.
The slap cracked through the room.
She stepped back, hand to her face, a thin stream of blood from her nose.
A terrifying silence followed.
In her eyes I sawnot anger, not painbut pure fear.
I knew it was the end. There was no turning back.
She didnt scream. She didnt cry.
She simply grabbed her coat and left.
The next morning a lawyer rang my doorbell with divorce papers.
The court stripped me of everythingincluding my son.
I put up with your jealousy for years, she later said, her voice icy. But never violence.
I begged for forgiveness, pleaded that it was a moment of madness, that it would never happen again.
She didnt care.
Then came the final blow: in court she claimed I was abusive toward our child.
A lie. A calculated, cruel lie. I had never laid a hand on him, never spoken harshly.
Who would believe me? A man already accused of beating his wife.
The judge didnt hesitate.
She received full custody.
I got only a few hours each week, brief visits in a neutral setting.
No nights together. No mornings where I could make breakfast.
For six months I lived for those fleeting moments.
When he ran into my arms, he hugged me tightly and whispered how much he missed me.
And then, once again, I watched him walk away.
One day he said something that shattered me completely.
The truth my fiveyearold son revealed.
He was growing up, starting to notice things.
While playing with his toy cars, he blurted out:
Dad, Mom wasnt home yesterday. A lady came to stay with me.
My body tightened.
What lady? I asked, choking on the words.
I dont know. She always shows up when Mom goes out at night.
I couldnt breathe.
Where does Mom go?
He shrugged. She never tells me.
My fists clenched.
I needed answers.
When I finally uncovered the truth, everything inside me exploded.
Hed been left with a babysitter.
A stranger.
While I begged for more time with my child, she handed him over to an unknown woman.
I grabbed the phone and called her.
Why are you leaving our son with a stranger when Im right here?
Her voice was cold, indifferent. Because its easier that way.
Easier?! My breathing grew ragged. Im his father! If youre not here, he should be with me.
She sighed impatiently. Alejandro, Im not going to bring him to your house every time I have something to do. Stop making a drama.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped the receiver.
What should I do? Report her? Fight in court?
And if I lost again?
One mistake. One flash of fury.
And theyd taken everything from me.
But not my son
I will not lose him.
I wont let a stranger raise him.
Ill fight.
Because its the only thing I have left.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Ann made her way outside and immediately shivered as the biting wind snuck beneath her thin cardigan—she hadn’t bothered with her coat. She stepped out into the garden, just standing there and glancing about, not even noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?”—She jumped when she saw Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a little older with wild hair sticking up at the back of his head. “I’m not crying, it’s just…—” Ann lied. Michael looked at her, then fished three sweets from his pocket and handed them over. “Here, just don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all be after me. Go inside,” he ordered firmly, and she obeyed. “Thanks,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… just…” But Michael had already figured it out. He nodded and walked on. In the village, everyone knew Ann’s father, Andrew, drank. He often went to the only shop and asked for credit until payday. Val, the shopkeeper, would scold him but still give in. “How you haven’t been sacked yet, I don’t know—” she’d mutter after him, “—you already owe a fortune,” but Andrew would quickly leave and spend the money on drink. Ann went inside. She’d only just come home from school, she was nine. There was never much food at home, but she didn’t want to tell anyone she was hungry, or else she’d be taken from her father and put in care—and she’d heard terrible things about that. Besides, who would look after dad? He’d fall apart on his own. No, better things stay as they are, even if the fridge was empty. That day, Ann had finished school early—two teachers were off sick. It was late September, a cruel wind hurled yellow leaves from the trees and chased them down the road. This September was especially chilly. Ann had an old jacket and worn boots; if it rained, they’d soak right through. Her dad was sleeping—still in his clothes and shoes—snoring on the sofa. There were two empty bottles on the kitchen table and more under it. She opened the cupboard, but it was bare—not even a bit of bread. Ann wolfed down the sweets Michael had given her, then sat down to do her homework, curling up on the wooden stool, but she couldn’t concentrate—numbers were the last thing on her mind. The wind outside bent the trees, swirling dead leaves everywhere. The garden outside, once lush and green, was now grey and dead. The raspberry canes had dried up, the strawberries gone, only weeds now grew on the old beds, even the apple tree was lifeless. Mum used to care for it all, nurture every sprout. The apples had been sweet, but this August, Dad had picked the lot early and sold them at the market, muttering, “I need the cash.” Ann’s father—Andrew—hadn’t always been like this. He used to be gentle and cheerful; they’d go mushrooming in the woods with Mum, watch movies together, have tea and pancakes in the morning—pancakes Mum made, with apple jam tarts on weekends. But one day, Mum got ill, and they took her to hospital. She never came home. “Something with her heart,” Dad said, and cried, and Ann cried too, cuddling close as he hugged her tightly, “Now your mum will be watching over you from above.” After that, Dad would just sit with her photo, staring into space, and then, in time, he started drinking. Unpleasant men started turning up at the house, talking loudly, laughing coarsely. Ann would retreat into her tiny room, or slip away to sit behind the house, out of sight. She sighed and finished her homework quickly—schoolwork was easy for her. After, she packed her books away into her schoolbag, and lay down on her bed. On her bed was her old rabbit, a soft toy Mum had given her when she was little—her favourite. She’d always called him Timmy. He’d faded from white to grey but she still loved him. Ann squeezed her battered rabbit tight. “Timmy,” she whispered, “do you remember our Mum?” Timmy was silent, but Ann didn’t doubt he remembered, just as she did. Sleepy memories came—blurry but bright. Mum, in her apron, hair tied back, kneading dough in the kitchen. Always baking something. “Come on, love, let’s make magic buns,” Mum would beam. “How are they magic?” Ann would wonder. “They just are, you’ll see!” Mum would laugh. “We’ll shape them like hearts, and when you eat a heart, if you make a wish, it comes true.” Ann would help Mum roll dough into little heart-shaped buns. They’d always come out wobbly, but Mum would only smile gently: “Every love has its own shape.” Ann would wait eagerly for the buns to bake, so she could eat one piping hot and make a wish. The whole house smelled of sweet pastry, and when Dad came home, the three of them would have tea with Mum’s magic buns. Ann wiped away fresh tears from these happy memories. That was then. Now the empty ticking of the clock echoed the emptiness inside her, the loneliness, the ache for Mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, hugging Timmy close, “I miss you so much.” Over the weekend, when there was no school, Ann decided to go for a walk after lunch; Dad was lying comatose on the sofa again. She layered an old jumper under her coat and headed out, towards the woods. Not far off was an old house—Mr. Edwards’ place, though he’d died two years back—but his apple and pear orchard was still there. She’d been before, climbing the fence to gather fallen apples and pears, telling herself: “I’m not really stealing… I just pick up the ones on the ground—no one else wants them.” She only vaguely remembered old Mr. Edwards—a kindly man with white hair and a cane—who used to give apples and pears to the local kids, sometimes even a sweet from his pocket. He was gone, but the orchard still fruited. Ann dropped over the fence and reached for an apple when— “Oi! Who are you?” She jumped, seeing a woman in a coat standing on the porch. In her surprise, Ann dropped the apples. The woman came closer. “Who are you?” she repeated. “I’m Ann… I’m not stealing…just picking up what’s on the ground… I thought…” “I’m Mr. Edwards’ granddaughter. Just arrived yesterday—I live here now. Have you been coming here long?” “Since Mum… since Mum died…,” Ann choked, tears brimming. The woman hugged her gently. “There, there, no more tears now. Come inside, I’m Anna—Anna Silver. When you’re older, they’ll call you Anna too.” Anna Silver quickly realised the girl was hungry, and that life hadn’t been easy for her. They went in. “Take your shoes off, I’ve cleaned up since yesterday, though I’ve barely unpacked. I just made some soup and a little something else. Looks like we’re neighbours now,” she said, eyeing Ann’s skinny frame, old coat, too-short sleeves. “Is your soup… does it have meat?” “With chicken, darling,” Anna replied kindly. “Come, let’s eat.” Ann didn’t hesitate—she was starving. She sat at the table, checkered cloth beneath her elbows, the house warm and cosy. Anna Silver brought over a bowl of soup, with a plate of bread. “Eat as much as you’d like. If you want more, just ask. Don’t be shy, Ann.” And Ann wasn’t. She finished the bowl in minutes, bread and all. “Would you like some more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you, I’m full.” “Then, time for tea!” Anna brought out a low basket under a tea towel, and when she pulled it off, the scent of vanilla filled the room—inside lay heart-shaped buns. Ann picked one up, took a bite, and closed her eyes. “These… these are just like Mum’s,” she whispered. “My mum made magic buns just like these.” After tea, flushed-cheeked and content, Ann sat back, and Anna Silver spoke gently: “So, Ann, tell me about your life—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you home after.” “That’s all right, it’s only a few houses away, no need—” Ann didn’t want Anna to see the mess at theirs. “I insist,” Anna replied. Their house was silent when they arrived; Dad still on the sofa, bottles and rubbish everywhere. Anna looked around, shaking her head. “Now I see…” Then she said briskly, “Come on, let’s tidy up.” She swept the rubbish off the table, put empty bottles in a bin bag, threw open the curtains, shook out the filthy mat. Ann blurted out: “Don’t tell anyone how we live. My dad’s a good man—just lost. If people find out, they’ll take me away, and I don’t want that. He really is good, just misses Mum so much…” Anna hugged her. “I promise, your secret’s safe with me.” Time passed. Ann ran off to school with neat plaits, a new coat, smart boots, backpack over her shoulder. “Annie! My mum says your dad married again—is it true?” her classmate Martha asked. “You look lovely—your hair’s so pretty now!” “It’s true—I have a new mum now, Auntie Anna!” Ann replied proudly, hurrying off to school. Andrew had long stopped drinking, helped by Anna Silver. Now they always walked together—Andrew tall and handsome, smartly dressed; Anna dignified, confident, and kind. They were always smiling—and Ann was adored. Years flew by. Ann was a university student. She returned home for the holidays and burst in through the door: “Mum, I’m home!” Anna rushed to meet her, wrapped her in a hug and laughed, “Oh, my clever girl, welcome home!” And in the evening, Andrew would come back from work, happy and proud. Every love, indeed, has its own shape.