I’m not sure anyone enjoys “digging” into someone else’s personal matters, but I want to share a story from my life that, given the ways of the modern world and our harsh realities—where loyalty, honesty, and devotion often seem like empty words—could happen to anyone.
During my college years, specifically in my third year when I was 19, I fell head over heels in love with a girl who was a year younger than me. As it often happens at that age, I was so smitten that I couldn’t even look at anyone else. The thought that I was nobody to her and that she could go out with whomever she pleased terrified me. After much deliberation, I made up my mind firmly and irrevocably—I would marry her!
I mustered all my courage and determination, gathered my thoughts, and proposed. And just like that, we were husband and wife!
“You were so young to get married,” you might think. But at that moment, my head and every fiber of my soul and body were overflowing with love for another person. There was no room for thoughts about studies, and it seemed that if not now, then when would be the “right age”? You only live once.
In the first year of our marriage, we welcomed a son. The level of happiness is simply indescribable. No words could capture that feeling of elation. The ground seemed to slip away beneath my feet, a smile was plastered on my face, tears welled in my eyes, and my entire body trembled with joy.
Time passed, and our little boy grew. His first words, his first steps—it was all incredible and unforgettable.
Eight years later, we had a daughter. They say daughters love their fathers more. In that moment, I felt infinitely happy again—the happiest man on Earth.
This was it—happiness. This was the family I had always dreamed of.
After graduating from college, I faced a choice about work. It was clear I needed to provide not just for myself but for my family: my wife and child.
It was obvious I wouldn’t work in the field I studied, as the pay was too low. Then, I don’t even recall whose idea it was, but someone suggested joining the military. Why not? The pay was good, and it meant my wife could choose not to work and focus on raising our children.
I was transferred to various military units across our country—and beyond. I must have traveled most of it, if not all, because of my service. The result: several awards, a few injuries, and, naturally, an early retirement.
At 42, I left the military. Stay home? No, that wasn’t an option. I can’t sit still, and extra money never hurts. I decided to work in the field I had studied years ago, landing a job at a large company. To say I enjoyed the work would be an understatement. I gave it my all, and that never goes unnoticed. Within a few years, I climbed the career ladder and became the deputy CEO and a co-owner. As you might have guessed, my family has never faced financial struggles, and we still don’t.
I’m now 60 years old, and my wife is 59.
The story that happened to us came after 40 years of marriage—40 happy years filled with absolute trust, fidelity (or so I thought), and mutual love. Not once in all those years did we argue over jealousy.
Our children grew up. Both work in the police force. Our son has had a more successful career—he’s a department chief, an officer with the rank of colonel. Our daughter is a warrant officer.
Our children made us grandparents, bringing us joy once again. It’s truly wonderful to watch the continuation of your lineage.
Despite the years, which spare no one, my wife remained as slender and beautiful as she was at 18, without ever resorting to plastic surgeons.
Every day, coming home from work, I thanked God for giving me such a beautiful wife, wonderful children, and a love we had carried through so many years.
Emma (my wife) had been working at a promising company for over a decade, where her intelligence was recognized, and she rose to the position of head of the marketing department. Given her role, she often had to go on business trips. In recent years, those trips became more frequent, but what can you do? Work is work.
Her trips were usually to Portland, but like any loving wife and mother, she called daily—sometimes multiple times a day—sharing how her day went, asking if everything was okay at home without her, and saying how much she missed us and couldn’t wait to return.
Once, the company I work for signed a deal with suppliers in Portland, and as the deputy CEO, I had to go there to finalize all the organizational details. After successfully closing the deal, I was invited to the supplier’s office, where, as is customary, a lavish table was set with drinks and appetizers.
As I looked around the office, I was struck by its cozy atmosphere: elegant lamps, a fish tank, photos on the desk. Examining the photos, I noticed the company’s director in them, arm in arm with my Emma. My breath caught. My heart stopped.
I tried to hide my emotions and, in a cold tone, asked who the woman was. The owner replied, “That’s my beloved! We’ve been together for years!” He went on to describe her, praising her, saying she was the perfect partner. The only thing that bothered him was her mother, whom she often had to visit due to serious health issues.
Listening to his confessions, I felt a painful mix of hurt and frustration. I couldn’t believe my Emma was capable of such deceit, such betrayal. I felt like I might lose control and confront him right there.
He invited me to his countryside home, calling it the best place in the world and saying he’d introduce me to his beloved in person. I accepted the invitation.
We arrived. As we entered the house, I saw Emma’s face change the moment she saw me—she turned pale.
Restraining myself in that moment grew harder, so I turned and quickly walked out of the house.
I called a taxi and headed straight to the airport. I bought a ticket for the earliest flight. Sitting in the waiting area, I still couldn’t believe this was reality and not some nightmare.
My mind was consumed with thoughts: “How could she?” “Why did she do this to me?”
The stress triggered a stroke. Thankfully, it wasn’t fatal, and I spent about a month in the hospital under observation. To avoid upsetting me, they took my phone away. Emma called, trying to reach me, but I didn’t want to see or hear from her.
After I was discharged, Emma came to me, attempting to offer some feeble justification for her actions, apologizing, and even trying to pin the blame on me at one point.
I listened to her and realized I could no longer watch her fall in my eyes. That was the end of our conversation.
I didn’t tell the children anything, but a few months later, I suggested to her that we tell them. They’re adults; they would understand.
The moment of truth came: the children knew everything. She felt ashamed and realized her actions had earned her only the contempt of those closest to her. So, she decided to return to her lover.
A year later, her new husband passed away, and his children couldn’t accept their new stepmother, so Emma returned to our city. But we barely speak anymore.
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