I’m Emma, and after my divorce, my 7-year-old son turned from sweet to furious, yelling and breaking stuff. I thought it was just the split’s fallout until I overheard him say, “I hate her.” The truth behind his anger broke me, but it drove me to save our relationship.
I believed my marriage was strong for nine years. Not ideal, but good, giving our son, Finn, a loving home. Then one night, while folding clothes and watching a movie, my phone lit up with a text from Megan, my husband’s coworker. “I’m sorry,” she wrote. “I didn’t know he was married when we got together.” My hands went cold as I dropped a sock. She added, “He threatened my job when I wanted out. You need to know.” Screenshots of texts and voice notes followed, showing their secret affair. I couldn’t breathe. That night, I unlocked my husband’s phone while he slept. The betrayal grew: Megan, plus Sarah, Chloe, Lily, Beth, and Anna. Six women. He’d planned dates while I made dinner, lying about late meetings while I helped Finn with spelling. I was finished.
I filed for divorce the next day. Fury pushed me through lawyer visits and friends’ shocked remarks like, “You seemed so happy.” I’d say, “Happy guys don’t have six affairs.” His career and reputation tanked. But as a mom, I put Finn first, no matter my pain. I let him see his dad three weekends a month, keeping pickups civil, thinking we were co-parenting well. Then Finn changed. He got mad over small stuff, like me asking him to tidy up. “I know!” he’d shout, slamming doors. He broke lamps and threw toys in rages. I told myself it was the divorce, a phase. I used softer tones, bought his favorite cookies, and offered movie nights, but he pushed me away.
One day, he lost it when I asked about homework, ripping books and dumping his trash can, glaring with hate. “Why?” I asked, trembling. “Because I wanted to!” he yelled. I was losing him. One night, after he refused my bedtime song, I heard him whispering by his door. I listened. “I hate her. I want to live with you,” he said into his old toy phone, voice cracking. “She’s bad. She made you go.” My heart sank. I peeked in, seeing his tears. Later, I sat with him and asked, “Do you love me?” He shrugged. “I dunno.” I said, “Why are you mad?” He cried, “Grandma said you kicked Dad out because you’re mean. I don’t want to be here!” His grandma—my ex’s mom, who’d held my hand at Finn’s birth—had turned him against me.
I asked, “Did you tell Dad?” He nodded, sobbing. “I said I hate you and I’m making you pay. Dad said it’s not your fault, maybe mine.” Finn was drowning in lies and guilt. I called my ex, expecting a fight, but he agreed to talk together. At our kitchen table, Finn clutched a stuffed lion, eyes down. I said, “He needs the truth.” My ex looked at Finn with regret. “The divorce wasn’t your fault or Mom’s. I made bad choices. Mom did what was right.” Finn glanced up. “You’re not mad at her?” “I’m mad at me,” his dad said. Finn leaned toward me a bit, a first in months. “Sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault,” I said. That night, he slept quietly, no outbursts. We started healing with morning chats, puzzles, and therapy to share feelings. Six months later, Finn and I have tough days, but his hugs and laughs show we’re okay. This hurt taught us a stronger love.
