My husband Mark told me the house had a rat infestation and needed a two-week professional disinfection. He insisted the kids and I stay at a hotel while he supervised the process. I didn’t question it—he had a history of overreacting to home safety. The kids were thrilled with the hotel’s pool and waffle machines, and I tried to relax, even though Mark rarely visited and always seemed distracted when he did.
Ten days in, I stopped by the house to grab my daughter’s forgotten shampoo—and saw a woman inside, drinking from my mug, wearing pajamas, and moving around like she belonged. There were no workers, no signs of disinfection. I was stunned, so I drove off without confronting her. Instead, I called Mark and demanded he come to the hotel. When he arrived with roses, I confronted him—and he finally admitted it. The woman was Sophie, his ex-girlfriend from college.
Mark claimed it was a “midlife crisis” and that seeing Sophie again confused him. He said he needed time to figure things out. But while he was “figuring things out,” I was putting our kids to bed alone, believing we were temporarily displaced for our safety. Turns out, he lied to everyone—me, the kids, and even our neighbors, telling them I’d gone to visit family.
What he didn’t know was that our house is legally in my name, bought with inheritance from my father. I told him that loud and clear. After he left, I called Mrs. Lawson—our neighbor—who had suspected something and offered the name of a divorce attorney. As I watched my children sleep that night, I realized the next chapter of our life had just begun—without Mark.