Mark and I were married for seven years. I was a freelance graphic designer, and I thought we had a perfect marriage—until the night of his promotion party.
We were “that couple”—in sync, affectionate, and always laughing. After years of infertility struggles, we finally had Sophie, our bright, curious daughter. Life felt whole again.
At Mark’s work party, Sophie said something strange: “That’s the lady with the worms.” She pointed to Tina, a woman I vaguely recognized from Mark’s office. Sophie insisted she’d seen “red worms” on Tina’s bed—when she was there with her dad.
I confronted Mark. He brushed it off, claiming Sophie saw hair curlers and that he only visited Tina to get paperwork. But when I pressed, his lies fell apart.
The next day, I met Tina. She confirmed everything with chilling calm. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” she said.
I left the café and never looked back.
I filed for separation, made arrangements for Sophie and me, and Mark moved in with Tina. Their life isn’t perfect now—Sophie refuses to go there if Tina’s around. Mark looks drained.
As for me, I sleep peacefully now. I paint, take Pilates, and fill Sophie’s world with light.
One night, she asked, “Why doesn’t Daddy live with us?”
“Because he lied about the worms.”
She nodded solemnly. “Lying is bad.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
And she smiled. “I’m glad we have no worms.”
Me too, baby. Me too.
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