I’m not proud of how this story begins. I stole a married man from his wife and three children. Back then, I wrapped my choices in the word love and told myself every excuse sounded reasonable—as long as it protected me from guilt.
Then one night, his wife called. Shaky, hoarse, exhausted from crying. She begged me to leave him alone. To stop breaking her family. I laughed inside and spoke coldly: “Save your whining for someone who cares. He’s gone. Fix yourself.” I was that person.
A year later, I was pregnant, glowing, convinced I’d earned happiness. He was attentive, excited, talking about names and nurseries. Then one afternoon, I came home to a note on my door: Run. Even you don’t deserve it.
Then my phone buzzed. A Facebook message from a fake account. First photo: him, holding hands with another pregnant woman. Dozens more followed—same jacket, same smile I thought was only mine. The message read: “I thought you took my whole life when you stole my husband. Turns out you just took the trash out of my house. Take everything you can and leave. He won’t change.”
I knew who she was—the woman I’d humiliated. She didn’t want revenge; she wanted me and my unborn child to survive. I left him, securing what I needed, and walked out on my own terms.
Some mistakes never fade. But grace like hers changes you. It changed me.
