When my husband claimed he couldn’t afford groceries again, I covered it, biting my tongue. Then his mom tagged him in a steakhouse photo, sporting a new watch. Suspicious, I messaged her, pretending to be him. Her reply—“Oh good, you finally told her” about a “baby”—stunned me. We had no kids, though we were trying. Posing as him, I learned of an ultrasound with “Cami.” I snooped his phone, finding months of loving texts and
photos of her pregnant belly. Devastated, I confronted his mom, who knew since February. I left with a suitcase, stayed with my cousin, and ignored his calls. At a coffee shop meeting, he admitted to cheating, blaming my long work hours. I divorced him, keeping the house. Later, Imani, another woman he’d been with, revealed she was pregnant—and Cami had faked her pregnancy. Now, my ex struggles, while I’ve found peace, painting, and a loyal dog, Milo. I learned to trust my gut and walk away.
