Last night, my husband surprised me with a romantic dinner — something he never does. After we finished our wine, I jokingly asked if something was up.
He went silent… then admitted he’d been cheating.
Before I could react, he added that the other woman might be pregnant. Then he made a call and said, “Come in.”
The door opened — and I froze.
It was my cousin, Afsana.
She stood there without an ounce of shame while my husband calmly explained they didn’t want to “hide” anything anymore. Like this was some kind of group discussion, not the destruction of my marriage.
I didn’t scream. I just walked out and drove to my sister’s house.
A week later, I met with a divorce attorney. Soon after, I learned the pregnancy was a false alarm — they’d burned my life down for nothing.
Months passed. I moved into my own apartment, rebuilt my routine, and slowly started healing.
Then I ran into Afsana again. Zubair had left her too — jobless, gone without a word.
I felt nothing.
A year later, while volunteering at a shelter, I met someone new. His name was Navin. He knew my story — all of it — and still chose to stay.
And for the first time in a long time… I believed I deserved that.
