I never imagined I’d be the woman staring at her husband’s phone, heart pounding like a drum. It started with subtle shifts—late nights at the office, a sudden obsession with cologne, and a smile that no longer reached his eyes. He mentioned a new colleague, “just a friend,” but her name lingered too often, too warmly. I tried to dismiss the gnawing doubt, but it grew teeth.
One evening, he left his phone unlocked. I didn’t mean to look, but curiosity had become survival. Their messages were flirty, intimate—like a private world I was never meant to enter. My throat tightened as I read her calling him “babe,” thanking him for the flowers I never received. I felt like a ghost in my own marriage.
Confronting him was a storm. He denied, deflected, then finally admitted it had “just started.” I wasn’t angry—I was numb. Years of love, laughter, and loyalty reduced to a secret office romance. I packed a bag that night, not because I wanted to leave, but because I needed to remember who I was before him.
Now, I’m rebuilding. I’ve learned that betrayal doesn’t define me—it reveals the strength I forgot I had. I still ache, but I no longer wait for his texts or wonder where he is. I’m choosing myself, every day. And that woman at work? She can have the man who lies with ease. I’m done being the collateral damage of someone else’s thrill.
