I was using my husband’s laptop one afternoon to print a document when a notification popped up—a dating site. I assumed it was an ad… until I clicked it.
It was a full profile. Messages to multiple women. My hands shook as I scrolled—until I saw the line that stopped my breath:
“My wife is dead. I’m looking for love.”
Dead. My husband had declared me dead.
Nine years of marriage collapsed in seconds. Our vows, our routines, our life together suddenly felt unreal. I didn’t confront him. Instead, I froze. The next morning, I quietly contacted a lawyer and began preparing to leave—changing passwords, checking finances, pulling away emotionally.
Days later, he came home smiling—with another man.
“Babe,” he said casually, “this is Greg. You’ll like him.”
I stood there stunned. Greg looked nervous, gentle… familiar. Then my husband explained: Greg’s wife had died two years earlier. He wanted to try dating again but didn’t understand apps, so he asked my husband for help.
The profile wasn’t my husband’s.
It was Greg’s.
Every message. Every photo. Even the line about a dead wife.
Greg spoke softly about his fear of starting over, and the truth hit me like a wave. I had almost destroyed my marriage without asking a single question.
That day, I learned something painful and humbling:
Sometimes the deepest wounds don’t come from betrayal—but from assumptions made in silence.
