My 25-year-old son married a kind 23-year-old woman named Tina. At first, everything seemed hopeful. They were young, in love, and building a life together. When their baby boy was born, I believed it would only strengthen their bond.
Instead, things quietly unraveled.
Tina began mentioning my son’s infidelity—at first casually, almost as if she were trying to make sense of it herself. I hoped she was mistaken. She wasn’t. He had cheated on her multiple times, and she had proof. I was ashamed. That wasn’t how I raised him.
I apologized to Tina and told her honestly that if she ever chose to leave, I would support her. She deserved better. But Tina, gentle and forgiving, stayed. She loved him. She hoped he would change—for her, for their child.
Months later, my son called to say he was filing for divorce. Calmly. Cheerfully. He’d found someone “more suitable.” Tina was left alone with a one-year-old, struggling in a small rented room, working nonstop just to survive.
Then he called again—to invite us to his wedding.
When I asked why he’d cheated, he laughed. “Tina’s nice,” he said, “but I deserve better.” Something inside me broke.
On his wedding day, my husband and I went to Tina’s home instead. We helped, soothed the baby, and gave her a few hours of peace.
When my son called, I told him the truth. He hasn’t spoken to us since.
Sometimes I wonder if I went too far. Then I see Tina still standing—and I know I didn’t.
