The Price of Betrayal: How a Mistress Stole a Husband from His Family
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, absently stirring her tea. Outside, the branches of an oak tree swayed, and the sound of children’s laughter floated in—her youngest son, Tommy, was chasing the neighbor’s boy, Alfie, and his scruffy little terrier around the garden. Everything seemed ordinary, predictable. A near-perfect illusion of domestic bliss. Little did she know that in just a few short days, her world would shatter, leaving behind fragments she’d have to piece together with trembling hands.
The phone rang at the most unexpected moment. It wasn’t Edward—her husband rarely called, and when he did, it was always clipped, perfunctory. *“Working late.”* Or, *“Grab something for dinner.”* This time, the number was unfamiliar, cold in its anonymity.
“Hello?” Eleanor said, pressing the receiver to her ear.
The voice on the other end was confident, almost unnervingly so.
“Ellie? Hello. My name’s Scarlett. We’ve never met… until now.”
Eleanor frowned. There was a mocking lilt in the woman’s tone. Random women didn’t just call for a chat.
“Yes… What can I do for you?”
“I thought you should know. Your husband… well, let’s just say he hasn’t been entirely honest with you. Edward and I have been together for nearly five years.”
Did Eleanor react? Not a flicker. Her face stayed impassive, as if the words belonged to someone else’s life—a dreary soap opera playing in the background while she went about her day. Meanwhile, Scarlett prattled on, relentless.
“I kept quiet because, truthfully, I felt sorry for you. But it’s become ridiculous. He hasn’t loved you in years. He stayed out of pity, out of habit.”
*Pity.* The word cut like a papercut—small but sharp, drawing blood where it hurt most. Because deep down, she’d felt it too—the way his eyes skimmed past hers, the polite distance in their conversations, like neighbours exchanging pleasantries over a fence.
“Right. What do you want?” Eleanor asked, voice steady.
Scarlett chuckled.
“Let’s meet. Some things are better said face-to-face.”
Two days later, they did. Eleanor walked into a dimly lit café on the outskirts of town—the sort of place designed for hushed, dramatic confessions. Scarlett was waiting at a corner table, all sleek hair and practiced poise.
“Thanks for coming. Not every wife would, you know.”
Eleanor sat, clasping her hands to hide the shaking.
“Who are you to him?”
Scarlett hesitated—just long enough to make it theatrical—before launching into the sordid details. How they’d met at a business conference in Manchester. How they’d sneaked off to Edinburgh for weekends. *“He even bought me a ring… not for the right finger, of course,”* she added with a smirk. Each word was another twist of the knife, another triumphant *“I won.”* Eleanor sat stone-faced, fists clenched under the table.
When she got home that evening, Edward was already there—jacket slung over a chair, football on the telly. Normal. Until she spoke.
“Leave,” she said, barely across the threshold.
“Ellie, what’s wrong?” His confusion seemed genuine, but she was past caring.
Tears spilled over. “I *know*, Edward. Just go. You love someone else.”
He spluttered excuses, but she pointed to the door, refusing to crumble.
The first months after he left were brutal. Tommy and little Freddie couldn’t understand why Daddy didn’t come home anymore. Tommy cried every night; Freddie just stared out the window, waiting.
Eleanor scrambled for extra work—her salary alone wouldn’t cover the old house. Edward fought for a *“fair”* split of assets. Now she lived in a cramped flat on the outskirts: a kitchen so tiny you could cross it in four strides and a view of a car park. But she endured. Smiled for the boys at breakfast, read them bedtime stories. Even when she sobbed into her pillow at night, she hoped—*knew*—it would get easier.
Edward, meanwhile, wasn’t thriving. The rose-tinted haze had lifted, and Scarlett was *not* the goddess he’d imagined. She nitpicked, hated routine, compared him to *“more exciting”* men. One day, she packed her things with cold precision.
“Sorry, Eddie. You’re just… dull. I need someone who can keep up.”
The woman who’d destroyed his marriage for *this*?
He tried crawling back. Turned up on Eleanor’s doorstep, shaking.
“Forgive me, Ellie. I was an idiot. Can we try again?”
She studied him—no trace of the proud man she’d married. Just a hollowed-out stranger who’d gambled everything (including his savings, which he’d foolishly spent renovating Scarlett’s flat).
“No,” she said simply. “You don’t have a home here anymore.”
Life moved on. The cramped flat became oddly peaceful. She rebuilt—for herself, for the boys. It wasn’t perfect, but it was *honest.*
Better alone than with someone who’d stolen your belief in love.
Years later, things improved. Eleanor met a kind-eyed colleague at work—first coffees, then dates, then a wedding. They bought a proper house. Tommy and Freddie got a baby sister.
Edward? Well, he never settled down. Plenty of flings, sure—but never joy.
Karma, some might say, has a wicked sense of humour.
