We agreed I’d take the kids to my parents’ while my husband worked through a tight deadline. Midweek, my daughter called sobbing—he’d shown up unannounced and taken them out. I raced home and searched his location.
When I finally spotted his car in a parking lot, I peeked inside and nearly vomited.
Sitting in the passenger seat was a woman—young, stylish, and grinning at my kids in the back. Her long nails tapped on the side of her smoothie cup while my son chattered from his booster.
My husband leaned on the driver’s door, laughing like this was just another Thursday. Meanwhile, I was standing in the CVS parking lot, feeling like my stomach had been ripped open.
I didn’t knock on the window.
I didn’t scream. I just walked away, got back in my car, and drove around the block with both hands shaking on the wheel. I ended up parked outside a pet grooming place, of all places, where I let myself cry until my throat hurt.
We weren’t in a perfect place, I’ll admit that.
But we weren’t separated, either. Two weeks before, he’d told me he was overwhelmed with work.
He said he needed “space to think” and that staying home with me and the kids was too chaotic for now. I didn’t love it, but I respected it.
So I packed up the kids and drove us to my parents’ house in Watertown.
He didn’t even say goodbye to them. Now here he was, picking them up without asking and driving around with some…some woman like we were all characters in a soap opera. That night, I didn’t call him.
I tucked the kids in, told them Mommy was just tired, and sat in the bathroom scrolling through his social media.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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