My hubby says my body stinks. I washed 3 times a day, deodorized every hour, and cleaned my teeth 5 times because I was worried. In a conversation with my MIL, he hurriedly said he couldn’t keep the lie up anymore.
First, I froze. Which lie? Was my scent lied about? Was it anything else? I carefully listened behind the half-closed kitchen door while my pulse raced.
“She’s becoming obsessed with cleaning herself,” he muttered to his mom on the phone. “I only said it because I needed a reason—”
To what? Barely breathing, I leaned forward.
“—to make her feel insecure enough to not ask questions,” he concluded.
I felt like the floor fell. My stomach twisted. This went beyond scent. He manipulated me. My own self-image against me.
I retreated from the door, heart beating, brain racing. In order to go to bed and ponder, I pretended to be exhausted and smiled and nodded when he talked for the remainder of the evening.
What did he mean by “not ask questions”? What was he hiding?
While he showered that night, I cautiously unlocked his laptop. The password was his mother’s birthdate. I’d seen him type it enough. Knowing I would discover anything made my hands quiver.
All seemed normal at first. A few emails, work files, sports tabs. I found a secret “ARCHIVE” folder on his desktop.
Inside were dozens of photos.
Not my. Not ours. A different lady.
Natural beauty characterized her. Walking her dog, smiling, joking in cafés. Several photos were shot from unusual angles, like he was hiding. Some were her selfies to him.
Tears obscured my view. Clicked more.
Voicemails existed. I knew her moniker for him—I never used it. “Baby J.”
I nicknamed him baby, which he detested. Why? I now understand.
Heard one of her texts.
“Hi love, I loved yesterday. I look forward to seeing you this weekend. Remember to bring my favorite wine.”
This weekend? The plan was to see his aunt out of town.
Suddenly, it clicked. Dinner cancellations. The additional showers. Sudden gym interest. Complaints about my scent.
All was smoke.
He cheated.
He wanted me to think I was sick so I wouldn’t explore further.
No tears that night. I couldn’t. Cold and numb. However, I knew there was no turning back. I couldn’t tell him I knew. Not yet.
The next week, I was normal. I even inquired whether switching deodorants made me smell better. He smiled, kissed my cheek, and said, “Much better, babe.”
It sickened me.
I began accumulating evidence. I sent him images, voice notes, and calendar entries. I stayed silent. I wanted a solid strategy.
I consulted a lawyer advised by a friend who had a nasty divorce. She told me to relax and collect. Every message, call log, lie.
I then had an unexpected event.
I spotted another lady while skimming his texts on my secret cloud account one afternoon.
It was different. She wasn’t flirtatious. She sounded serious. Professional.
Please let me know whether the transfer is still happening. I’ll wait till Friday,” she wrote.
A bank transfer? I reviewed the topic. He was transferring $15,000 to a secret account. I’d never seen.
We save. Our money.
The last straw.
I printed everything. Emails, messages, bank statements. I provided my lawyer copies. I scheduled a quiet therapy session because I needed to chat. I hadn’t told anybody. Not even my sister.
Therapist was nice. I remember her saying, “You didn’t lose his affection. You lost the illusion.”
Words gave me power.
He informed me he’d work late the following Friday. I nodded and kissed his cheek.
I followed him.
He skipped work. The lady in the images was his target. Hand-in-hand, they entered a quaint Italian eatery. I photographed. Turning away, I departed softly.
I was waiting at the table when he got home smelling like champagne and perfume that night.
He was surprised to find me awake.
He said, “Hey,” trying to seem calm. I thought you’d sleep.”
“I have something to show you,” I stated quietly. I moved the folder across the table.
Flipped it open. In seconds, his expression went from smug to frightened.
“I can explain—”
Sure, you can. No explanation, please. I want truth. Something you haven’t given me in months.”
He stuttered. Attempted to seize my hand.
I backed off.
“I know about money, too.”
He froze.
He understood he lost control then.
Are you divorcing me?
I stood. “No. Divorcing. Just doing it first.”
Trying to plead. It was pointless to promise. He would finish it. He was perplexed.
But I wasn’t.
I was bewildered for months. My value. My body. My brain.
Not anymore.
After weeks, he moved in with his mom. I deposited documents. I relied on my sister and pals. I resumed writing, did yoga, and had my first solo weekend vacation.
The twist occurred then.
Three months later, the first woman—the one in the photos—contacted me.
She added, “I didn’t know he was married. He said you were his cousin visiting him. I discovered it via your Instagram post. So sorry.”
We chatted. She wasn’t evil. She was duped.
She dropped a bombshell.
His loan came from her. They spent about $10,000 thinking they were moving in together. He made a deposit on “their” new apartment.
He abandoned her when I expelled him.
She wanted to sue.
I gave her my lawyer’s number. We pledged to speak for each other if required.
There was more.
The second, “professional” lady was revealed a month later. She was no banker. He persuaded an old buddy to conceal riches. She confessed when he stopped responding her calls.
It all fell on him like dominoes.
Job? Gone. He was dismissed for improper behavior at work and courting a colleague. That one complained.
Apartment? He didn’t. After discovering he stole from her, his mother expelled him.
Meanwhile, I bloomed.
I created a tiny skincare business—fitting? After my nervousness over how I “smelled,” I produced natural items to boost women’s self-esteem.
I saw the irony.
I met someone new too.
Slowly.
No hurry.
He wasn’t showy or lyrical. His only response was listening. Asked about my day. My haircut was noticed. Instead of saying I smelled better, said I looked joyful.
So I told him the full thing one rainy night. He grasped my hand and murmured, “He didn’t deserve you. You’re now where you should be.”
That may have been my greatest lesson.
Sometimes those who shatter us help us rebuild stronger.
If I hadn’t overheard that talk, I’d still doubt myself. Living insecurely. Becoming smaller for someone else.
Now I walk tall. I chuckle loud. I smell like roses, eucalyptus, and power.
This is my message to readers:
Follow your instincts.
Someone who makes you feel tiny is not loving.
Stop attempting to mend yourself for others’ comfort and question what they’re hiding.
Remember, karma is self-sufficient. Always knows the address.
If this story moved you, tell someone who needs to hear it. You never know who’s waiting to go and start over.