It was my boss who first told me that my husband was having an affair. I was married, working at a small local business. My boss was a divorced man, often hovering with flirtatious overtures. I never encouraged him; he was persistent, though. I always kept my boundaries sharp, politely but firmly telling him to stop, reminding him I had a partner, and pointing out that people at the office were starting to notice, making things awkward. He apologised and, after that, our working dynamic settled back to normal.
One afternoon, he called me into his office, shut the door behind us, and said there was something personal we needed to discuss. He asked if my husband was still going away at weekends. I nodded, caught off guard. He looked at me, utterly direct, and said,
I saw him with another woman.
He mentioned that his assistant manager had gone out with friends at a pub. Later, my boss joined them, and they recognised my husband across the crowded room. He was kissing someone else. I said I didnt believe itbut then, calmly, my boss took out his phone and showed me a video.
The footage was murky, cloaked in the flickering shadows and thundering music of a night out, but my husbands coat was unmistakeable, his gait as familiar as my own breath, his profile caught for a split second between bursts of laughter and neon. My stomach twisted with rage, humiliation, and a strange, sinking powerlessness. I left the office without another word and vanished home.
That evening, I confronted him. At first, he denied everything, then faltered, confessing that it was only a mistake, but he never left our home.
Over the next six months, life became a waking nightmare. I no longer wanted to be with him, but he refused to move out. We were renting, and he insisted he had every right to stay. He made things intolerablecranking music loudly at dawn, inviting people over without warning, leaving mess everywhere, making cutting remarks, sneering at every opportunity. Every argument spiralled further into chaos. I barely slept, living tangled in anxiety and malaise.
One morning, I sifted through our tenancy agreement and saw it was ending soon. In a moment of clarity, I realised this place wasnt truly mine. I didnt owe my suffering to these four walls. I started searching for my own flat, packed up what mattered, signed a new rental contract, and slipped quietly out of the old chapterno goodbyes, just the important things in hand and the door closing gently behind me.
Through it all, my boss watched, at first only as a witness, then as an ally. Hed softly check if I was alright, ask if I needed anything. Soon, we began messaging outside of worka friendly chat here, then a casual coffee there. I resisted any suggestion of romance, desperately needing calm. He understood and stepped back, giving me as much space as I requested. Only after many months did our exchanges slowly shift into something more.
Eventually, I accepted a new jobnot because of him, but for the higher pay, the better role, the fresh start. I handed in my notice, and suddenly, our roles were level. He was no longer my boss; we were just two people out in the city, beginning again.
Now, its been a yeartangled time, still tinged with the lingering feeling of unreality, like the fragments of a curious dream. My ex-husband has faded into a story belonging to someone else. I lost a marriage, but gained my peace and a genuinely good man.
