But the real betrayal came the next day.
I came home to find Emily packing boxes in our hallway.
Baby supplies stacked neatly by the guest room door. My husband stood there, completely unbothered, and told me he’d already agreed. He said we’d “figure it out.”
Now Emily and the baby are staying in our guest room, as if my consent never mattered.
As if my boundaries were optional.
I look at my husband now, and I don’t recognize him. I don’t feel chosen. I feel replaced.
And for the first time since we married, I’m seriously wondering if divorce is the only way to protect the life I was promised—and the woman I’ve always been.
