The Cost of Betrayal. How a Lover Stole a Husband from His Family
Elizabeth sat at the kitchen table, absently stirring her tea. Outside, the branches of an oak swayed gently, and the laughter of children carried on the breeze—her youngest, Thomas, was playing in the yard with the neighbour’s boy, George, and his new puppy. Everything seemed ordinary, familiar. A near-perfect illusion of peaceful domestic life. She never imagined that in just a few short days, her world would shatter, leaving her to gather the pieces with all her strength.
The phone rang at the most unexpected moment. It wasn’t Henry—her husband rarely called, and when he did, it was always abrupt, saying things like, “Working late,” or “Pick something up for dinner.” This was an unfamiliar number, cold and anonymous.
“Hello?” Elizabeth said, pressing the receiver to her ear.
The woman’s voice on the other end was unnervingly confident.
“Elizabeth? Hello. My name is Victoria. We don’t know each other… yet.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly. There was a mocking edge to the woman’s tone. Strangers didn’t call without reason.
“Yes… What is it?”
“I’m calling so you know. Your husband… well, let’s just say he’s not always honest with you. Henry and I have been together for over five years.”
Did Elizabeth react? No. Her face remained impassive, as if the words didn’t concern her personally. It was like watching a film—images unfolding before her, yet the reality stayed trapped behind the screen. Meanwhile, Victoria’s voice pressed on relentlessly:
“I stayed quiet for a long time, out of pity, if I’m honest. But it’s become absurd. He stopped loving you years ago. He stays out of habit, out of pity.”
Pity. The word stung like a needle’s sharp prick, drawing blood to the surface. A jab at her memory, her most vulnerable spot—the moment she’d first suspected their glances no longer met, their whispered words in the bedroom more like polite neighbours’ talk than husband and wife.
“Fine. What do you want?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly firm.
Victoria gave a faint chuckle.
“Let’s meet. You deserve the whole truth. Some things can’t be said over the phone.”
Two days later, they did meet. Elizabeth arrived at a dimly lit café on the outskirts of London—claustrophobic and shadowed, the perfect setting for such a conversation. Victoria was already waiting at a corner table, polished and poised, her hair neatly styled, her confidence rehearsed.
“Thank you for coming. Not every wife would, you know.”
Elizabeth sat across from her, folding her hands to hide their tremor.
“Who are you to him?”
Victoria raised an eyebrow, hesitating for just a second before answering.
Words poured out like acid, corroding everything inside Elizabeth. Victoria spoke without shame, recounting how she and Henry had met, their travels together, the gifts he’d given her. “Even a ring… though not for the right hand,” she added with a knowing smile. She claimed Henry’s love for Elizabeth had died long ago, that he stayed only for the children and, in part, out of pity for his wife.
Each declaration was a postcard stamped with *I’ve won*. Elizabeth barely heard her own heartbeat. She sat quietly, fists clenched, forcing herself to listen until the end.
When she returned home that evening, Henry was already there, his coat slung over a chair, the telly blaring a football match. Everything seemed unchanged—yet Elizabeth couldn’t stay silent.
“Get out,” she said the moment she crossed the threshold.
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?” His voice was bewildered, almost pleading.
She couldn’t hold back—tears burst forth like a breached dam.
“I know everything, Henry. Just go. You love someone else.”
He stammered excuses, but Elizabeth was unmoved. Through the pain, she pointed firmly to the door.
The months after he left were gruelling. Thomas and Edward, her boys, struggled to understand why their father never came home. Thomas asked nightly why Daddy had left; Edward waited silently by the window each evening.
Elizabeth had to find new work—one salary couldn’t keep them in their old flat. Worse, Henry insisted on a “fair” division of assets. Now, their home was a cramped flat in the suburbs: a kitchen so small it took only four steps to cross, a view of a car park from the window. But she endured. She forced smiles at breakfast, told bedtime stories even when she cried into her pillow at night, hoping one day it would hurt less.
Henry, meanwhile, found no relief, no happiness. Victoria turned out to be nothing like the woman he’d idealised. Her endless demands, her disdain for domestic routine, the way she compared him to more “exciting” men—it all poisoned their relationship. He felt the rift widening daily.
One evening, Victoria packed her things without emotion and said,
“I’m sorry, Henry, but you’re dull. I need someone younger, someone who can keep up.”
She had destroyed his family for something she discarded without a second thought.
Henry tried to return to Elizabeth. He knocked on her door, voice shaking as he begged forgiveness.
“Forgive me, Elizabeth. I was a fool. Can we start over?”
She looked at him with the faintest of smiles. Who stood before her now? Not the ambitious, confident man she’d once married, but one who’d thrown everything away—family, respect, love. Even his home, for he’d sunk all his money into Victoria’s flat.
“No,” she said simply. “There’s no home for you here.”
Life moved on. She still lived in that small flat but found a quiet peace in it. She was free. She learned to care for herself and the boys alone—they struggled, but they were a family now, building a life without empty promises.
Better to be alone than with someone who stole your faith in love.
In time, things improved. Elizabeth met a man at work—first as colleagues, then friends, then something more. They married, bought a lovely house, and Thomas and Edward soon had a baby sister.
Henry’s fate was less kind. He never found a woman to share his life with, though fleeting affairs never eluded him. Yet none brought him real joy.
