My ex-husband once told me, ‘It’s just harmless fun.’ That’s what he called his infidelity. But when he ripped the wallpaper off my walls after our divorce, karma decided it was her turn to have fun – with him.
Do you believe in karma? Honestly, I used to think it was just something people said to make themselves feel better after someone hurt them. They would say things like: ‘Don’t worry, karma will catch up with them.’
Yeah, right. But let me tell you, karma is real. And in my case? She had a terrible sense of humour.
Let me give you the situation. My ex-husband, Dan, and I were married for eight years. Eight long years during which I thought we had something solid – a house we worked on together, two beautiful children, and a life that, while not perfect, felt like ours.
But as it turned out, I was the only one in this marriage who believed in ‘ours.’ And I should have noticed the warning signs.
Because the night I found out about Dan’s infidelity is seared into my memory.
Our daughter Emma was sick with a high fever, and I rummaged through Dan’s drawer looking for the baby medicine he always kept there. Instead, I found his phone.
I wasn’t trying to peek, but my attention was caught by a notification that flashed on the screen: a heart-shaped emoji and the words ‘I love you!’.
I couldn’t resist opening it, and my heart burst when I discovered dozens of intimate messages between my husband and a woman named ‘Jessica.’
‘How could you?’ I whispered that night, my hands shaking as I faced him. ‘Eight years, Dan. Eight years! How could you cheat on me?’
He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. ‘It just happened,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders as if we were discussing the weather. These things happen in marriage.’ It was just harmless fun with my secretary Jessica. It won’t happen again, darling. Never! I’m so sorry. Believe me.’
‘Do these things happen? No, Dan. They don’t just happen. You made a choice. Every time.’
The first time, I did what so many of us do – convinced myself it was a mistake and an error in judgement. I thought we could make it right. I told myself that forgiveness was a powerful thing to do. But the second time? Oh, the second time shattered all my illusions.
‘I thought we could work through this,’ I said, holding out to him the proof of his second betrayal – a red lipstick stain on his collar. The irony of fate? I hated red lipstick and never wore it.
‘I thought you meant it when you said ‘never’ again.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ – he asked, his tone almost bored. ‘That I’m sorry? Does that make you feel better?’
At that moment, something inside me shivered. ‘No! I want you to pack your things.’
I didn’t waste a second. I filed for divorce before Dan could utter another pathetic excuse.
The divorce itself was as brutal as you can imagine.
But here’s the thing: the house wasn’t for sale. It was mine, inherited from my grandmother long before Dan came along.
‘This is ridiculous!’ yelled Dan during one of our mediation sessions. ‘I’ve lived in this house for eight years. I invested in it!’
‘And it’s still my grandmother’s house,’ I replied calmly, watching his outrage. ‘The deed is in my name, Dan. It always has been.’
There was no arguing from a legal standpoint. Dan, on the other hand, insisted that everything else be split fifty-fifty, as it always had been in our marriage. Groceries, holidays, furniture – whatever you want to call it, he demanded fairness to the penny.
And then came the moment that broke my heart more than all his cheating. We were discussing child custody arrangements when Dan looked at our lawyer and without the slightest hint of emotion said: ‘She can have full custody. I don’t want the responsibility of parenting.’
Our children, Emma and Jack, were in the next room. My precious little ones who deserved so much better than a father who saw them as a burden.
‘They’re your children,’ I hissed across the table. ‘How can you just-’
‘They’re better off with you anyway,’ he cut me short. ‘You always knew how to take care of them.’
After the papers were signed, Dan asked for a week to pack up and leave. He stated that he needed time to ‘work things out.’ To give him his freedom and spare the kids any awkward encounters, I took them to my mum’s house for a week.
On the eve of our departure, Emma snuggled up to her favourite stuffed bunny and asked: ‘Mummy, why can’t Daddy come with us to Grandma’s?’
I cradled her to me, fighting back tears. How do you explain to a six-year-old what divorce means or why her family is falling apart?
‘Sometimes, honey, adults need time apart to sort things out,’ I said.
‘But will he miss us?’ asked Jack, my eight-year-old, from the doorway.
‘Of course he will,’ I lied, my heart breaking apart all over again. ‘Of course he will.’
I decided it was the least I could do.