Our home has felt like a battlefield for the past week. Thomas and I aren’t speaking, barely making eye contact, and the only conversations we have are strictly about our little one—even those are clipped and cold. And it all started with what seemed like the smallest accident.
That morning, Thomas had left for work as usual. I was tidying up while our baby napped in his cot. Around ten, his phone, forgotten on the bedside table, buzzed. Once, twice, three times—I just meant to silence it so it wouldn’t wake our son. But my gaze snagged on the chat name lighting up the screen: “The Family Group.”
It hit me like a bolt from the blue. “The Family Group”—why had I never heard of it? Me, his wife, the mother of his child, wasn’t part of “the family”? My stomach twisted. I’ll admit, curiosity got the better of me. I opened it. And instantly regretted it. But the damage was done.
The chat was Thomas, his mum, dad, and sister. No sign of me. Except, of course, as the main topic of discussion. Apparently, I was a hopeless housewife, a clueless mother, and generally unfit for their precious son and brother. His mum had written that I fed our baby all wrong—too much, too little, at the wrong times. That our house was “a complete tip,” and that I always looked “as knackered as a coal miner.” His sister chimed in with her two pennies’ worth, despite never having so much as held a baby herself.
But the worst part? Thomas’s silence. Not a single word in my defence. He’d liked his sister’s digs, even tossed in a laughing emoji at his mum’s snide remarks. The man I loved, the father of my child, just let them tear me apart. And I’d tried so hard—nodding along with his mother to keep the peace, biting my tongue, smiling through it. I never wanted drama. I just wanted to belong.
When Thomas got home that evening, I couldn’t keep quiet.
“I saw the chat,” I said, holding his gaze.
He went pale, then lashed out: “You went through my phone? That’s a massive breach of trust! How could you?”
He shouted, accused, seethed. Not a word about how I felt. No remorse. No understanding.
I stood there, staring at the man I’d vowed to spend my life with, the father of my son, the one I’d forgiven for late shifts, grumpy moods, endless exhaustion. I’d never stopped him from using my phone—I had nothing to hide. But him? Turns out, he did.
Now we barely speak. He’s camped out on the sofa, muttering about “broken trust.” And I’m left wondering—broken by whom? Him or me? Because right now, I’m the one who feels betrayed. Judged, ridiculed, and erased—like I’m not his wife, not family, just some temporary lodger in his life.
I don’t know what happens next. We’ve mentioned divorce—maybe in anger, maybe seriously.
But one thing’s crystal clear: betrayal isn’t always an affair. Sometimes it’s staying silent when you should’ve spoken up. Sometimes it’s tapping “like” on words that cut someone else to the core.
Right now, I’m just trying to figure out—can I ever trust him again? Or is it already too late?…
