I met my husband on social media about five years ago. For me, it was instant. It was impossible not to fall for him—he has the kind of razor-sharp wit that would make a professional stand-up comedian jealous. Mark is twelve years older than me; before we met, he'd been in a long-term relationship for years, though they never actually tied the knot.
By the time we crossed paths, Mark had finished "sowing his wild oats" and was ready to settle down. He was dying to have kids, specifically dreaming of having a son. After a few months of dating, I moved into his place—a condo he'd inherited from his grandmother. About a year and a half later, we got married and immediately started trying for a family. We spent a full year trying to conceive without any luck, even though our labs showed we were both perfectly healthy. My OB-GYN kept reassuring me that a year isn't that long and that it happens to plenty of couples.
Then, right in the middle of the pandemic about a year ago, I found out I was pregnant. I had wanted a baby so badly, but the whole situation with the virus terrified me. At first, I was even scared to leave the house. When I did, I wore a respirator and gloves, and I'd wipe down every grocery item Mark brought home with disinfectant. Mark seemed calmer about the health side of things, but his business started taking a major hit. Clients were late on payments, and many cancelled his services altogether.
Before the pregnancy, Mark had been the primary breadwinner. I earned money through direct sales, distributing eco-friendly cleaning products and skincare for a well-known brand to my friends and contacts. I'd been doing it for years and had a solid client base, but during the lockdowns, my income plummeted too. So many of my friends lost their jobs; the last thing on their minds was buying high-end moisturizer.
***
There was a stretch where my husband had no money at all. I was the one covering groceries, gas, utilities, and everything else. I told myself it was just temporary—the virus would eventually recede, and our finances would bounce back.
When Mark asked to borrow a hundred dollars, I gave it to him without a second thought. I say "borrow" because that's how we handled things; we kept separate accounts. When we first moved in together, Mark was making three or four times what I was. Because of that, he handled the mortgage, big household purchases, vacations, and the bulk of the groceries. I usually covered the internet, Netflix, and the "extra" stuff like desserts or fruit; the rest of my money was mine to spend. If Mark ever had to grab cash from me for some reason, he always paid me back, even though I never asked or reminded him. At first, I thought it was a little strange since my parents always had a joint account, but I got used to it.
I asked him what he needed the money for, and he mentioned something about a car repair. I don't know the first thing about engines, so I didn't press for details. About a month later, I was doing the laundry and found a receipt in his hoodie pocket from a high-end lingerie boutique. The total was nearly ninety-five dollars.
I knew immediately that something was wrong. First of all, that shop doesn't carry maternity wear, and I was five months pregnant with a very noticeable bump. Second, the date on the receipt was the exact day he had borrowed the money from me. It was all circumstantial, but I needed the truth.
Mark came home from work that evening and went straight to the bathroom to wash his hands, leaving his phone face-down on the hallway table. I tried to open it, but the passcode I knew didn't work anymore.
When he came out of the bathroom, I caught his eye.
"Hey, Mark, can I use your phone to call a client? She ordered eighty dollars' worth of products without a deposit, and now she's dodging my calls. You mind?"
"Sure, let me unlock it for you."
"Don't worry about it, I know your code."
"Oh, I changed it," he said quickly. "I got an alert that I should update it for security. Here, I'll just use the fingerprint scanner."
In that moment, I wanted to hurl the phone at him and slap him across the face, but I kept my cool. If I had confronted him then, I would have just heard a string of excuses, and I might have actually believed them.
Mark handed me the phone but followed me into the kitchen, hovering as if he was afraid I'd start digging through his apps.
I dialed the client's number, had a brief conversation, and handed it back. Using the excuse that I needed to go drop off her order, I left the house and just drove around the city for hours. I couldn't stand the thought of being home. I felt sick, but I tried to stay calm for the sake of the baby.
***
I got home very late. Mark was half-asleep and asked why I'd been out so long. I gave him a clipped answer about losing track of time chatting. I waited until I was sure he was out cold, then tried to use his finger to unlock the phone. It took forever—I had to be so careful not to wake him—but I finally got in.
I looked everywhere. No texts, no WhatsApp messages, no photos. He'd obviously scrubbed everything after I'd used the phone earlier. I struggled to find the "recently deleted" folder—my phone is a different brand, and his settings were buried.
Eventually, I found it. It was full of work-related screenshots, but then I saw it: a photo of a woman in the exact lingerie from the receipt. I forwarded the photo to my own phone and deleted the evidence of the text. I even went the extra mile and looked up the boutique's website; the set she was wearing was a featured item from that month.
I printed the photo out in black and white and stapled the receipt to it. I packed a bag with the essentials, left the photo and receipt on the nightstand next to my sleeping husband, and went to stay with my sister.
The next morning, my phone wouldn't stop ringing. Mark claimed I had it all wrong—that the girl was just a friend of a buddy of his. He said the guy was out of town on business and asked Mark to buy her a "thank you" gift, and that the photo was just his friend bragging. I know all of his friends well; the story didn't hold water.
I couldn't forgive him, not even for the sake of our child. I moved back in with my parents in another state. I gave birth to a healthy baby girl on my due date. After a long, drawn-out legal battle, the divorce was finally finalized. Now, I live for my little princess. My ex-husband is still trying to reconcile, but he still won't admit to what he did.
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