Three years after my husband, Stan, left for his mistress, I unexpectedly ran into them. It wasn’t their misfortune that gave me satisfaction—it was realizing how far I’d come since their betrayal.
We had built a life together: fourteen years of marriage, two kids, and a routine that I thought was unshakeable. But one evening, Stan brought his mistress into our home and casually told me he wanted a divorce. I left that night with our children, moving in with my mom. The divorce was quick, and I rebuilt our lives in a modest new home.
Over time, Stan stopped providing financial support and distanced himself from the kids. Three years later, I encountered him and Miranda at a café. They were no longer the glamorous couple they once were. Stan, haggard and regretful, asked to see the kids, but I refused. I saw him for what he truly was—a man who had lost everything.
As I walked away, I felt a sense of closure. I didn’t need him to regret his choices for me to move on. My children and I had thrived on our own, and that was enough.
