I was paralyzed. In that instant, everything I had believed in and nurtured for four years suddenly collapsed.
We met in college, during the most beautiful years of my youth, in a world filled with innocence and enthusiasm. He was president of the volunteer club, always busy with meetings and events, but he never forgot to invite me to dinner or for walks around campus. Back then, I thought that if I ever married him, I would have nothing more to wish for in life.
We were together for four years in college, and three years after graduating, we got married. I was the middle child in a wealthy family: a brilliant older sister and a spoiled younger brother. I, however, was the quiet one, often unnoticed in my own home. My parents were always busy, each with their own lives, paying little attention to me.
Perhaps that’s why I never had the vanity often seen in daughters from wealthy families. I learned to be independent as a child, to care for myself, to be prudent, and to give in when necessary. That independence is what made him fall in love with me.
He was different. From a humble village, without resources, but with big ambitions. He knew exactly what he wanted and needed. For him, a career came first. And I, with my family and support, was the perfect choice: a mix of love and convenience.
When we married, almost all the wedding expenses were covered by my family. His family contributed barely at all, out of obligation. The house we lived in was a gift from my parents; the deed was in both our names, though he only paid a small part in installments. The car I used to commute to work was also a gift from my father.
I never claimed anything. I loved him and believed that, as husband and wife, everything should be shared. I thought my role was to be his silent support, his steady refuge. I loved him constantly, quietly.
After marriage, he devoted all his energy to work. He rose quickly and is now a manager at a large company. I took a lighter job so I could care for the family. I never blamed him for being busy, never got angry when he didn’t talk much, and never complained about lonely dinners or nights when he came home drunk.
I thought my role was to be the wife who waits, who supports. That’s how I loved him, silently and firmly. Until that day… when I accidentally sent a text.
It was raining heavily. I was alone in our huge house, afraid of the thunder. I wanted to message my best friend:
“My husband is on a business trip. Tonight I’m home alone; it’s raining too hard outside, and I’m scared.”
But I sent it to my husband by mistake.
I expected him to reply with comforting words, perhaps a call to reassure me. Instead, he sent a photo… of himself with another woman in bed, without any explanation.
I stared at the phone, stunned.
The next day, he came home calm and composed, as if nothing had happened. I said little; I only showed him the photo. He looked at it for a long time, then sighed lightly:
“It’s not what you think… this was something out of my control.”
I asked:
“Out of your control? You, in bed with another woman, and someone sends the photo from your phone? Was that an accident?”
He was silent for a moment, then half-heartedly explained that it had been at a party after signing with a partner. He’d been drunk, set up, and photographed. He assured me:
“I don’t know who took the photo or who used my phone to send it to you. After I sent it, they deleted it, so it didn’t appear in my history, and I didn’t find out. But I swear I didn’t do anything wrong against you. I only have you.”
I stayed silent, my heart empty. I no longer knew whether he had been unfaithful or if it was a setup. If it was a setup, why did he fall for it so easily? If he really was a victim, why didn’t he show anger, fear, or indignation?
What should I do now? Let it go as if nothing happened… or keep going until I uncover the whole truth?
