After a long workday, I walked into a scene straight from a love story. My husband, Simon, who rarely went all out, had turned our living room into a romantic paradise. Candles glowed, music hummed, and a mouthwatering dinner waited. It wasn’t a special occasion, so I was shocked. “What’s this about?” I asked, grinning but curious. Simon’s smile seemed strained. “Just wanted to make you happy,” he said, his eyes dodging mine. I pushed aside a flicker of doubt, swept up in the moment, and we sat to eat. The meal was amazing, and I felt cherished.
But Simon’s fidgeting caught my attention. He even washed the dishes afterward, which wasn’t like him. Sipping wine, I teased, “Are you hiding something?” His long pause chilled me. “What’s going on?” I asked, my joy fading. He looked down and spoke softly. “I did something wrong,” he said. My stomach dropped. “What?” I asked. “I’ve been seeing someone from work,” he admitted. “She might be pregnant with twins.” The dinner’s warmth vanished, replaced by betrayal. “How could you ruin us?” I yelled, hurt flooding me. “It was a mistake,” he said, but it didn’t help.
Then he said, “I have to tell you who.” He made a call, and the door opened. My sister stood there, guilt in her eyes. I fainted from the shock. When I came to, she was fanning me, Simon offering water, but their presence only deepened my pain. “You?” I whispered, staring at her. “It just happened,” she said, but her words were meaningless. The two people I trusted most had crushed me. “Get out!” I shouted, my heart breaking. They left, the door’s close echoing my loss. I cried that night, hoping to wake from this nightmare, but it was real.
My sister’s texts and my mother-in-law’s calls couldn’t mend the wound. Alone, I’m grappling with this double betrayal, my trust shattered. This story is a reminder that those we love can hurt us most, leaving us to pick up the pieces of a life we thought was secure.
