I buried our daughter on a Tuesday.
He was supposed to be there. To hold my hand. To say goodbye. Instead, I got a text: “Something came up. I’ll call you later.”
Later.
As if our child’s funeral was just another appointment he could reschedule.
What he didn’t know was that I had already seen the pictures. The ones of him sipping champagne in a luxury resort, his arm draped around a woman who wasn’t me. The same day our daughter took her last breath, he was taking selfies with his mistress.
I had known something was wrong for months. The way he’d flinch when I touched his phone. The sudden “conferences” that always seemed to pop up on weekends. So I did what any desperate wife would do—I checked.
And I found everything.
When he finally came home, he had the audacity to look sad. To bring flowers. To pretend. I let him talk. I let him lie. And then I showed him the proof.
His face went slack.
“You weren’t at a meeting,” I said. “You were with her.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just handed him the divorce papers.
By the end of the week, his investors knew. His colleagues knew. The whole world knew. The golden boy of the business world was nothing but a fraud.
Now he has nothing.
And I have an empty nursery.
Some losses can never be repaid.
